Charnarion (Thicker than Water)
by Late to the Party
Summary: Gorion former adventurer. Gorion slayer of monsters, looter of strongholds, pillager of temples. Gorion murderer. So what happened to all that wealth? And what if he wasn't the kindly, doddering old man everyone believes? And what if Charname knew, and acted long before Sarevok? Perhaps ambition runs in the family, but there's always a cost. Written 05-05-18 over two days. Pre-EE.
1. 1: Prologue

1\. Prologue

The fortress library was far from peaceful. Nestled in the cliffs, the keep was lashed by wind and rain, sun and sea, the rocks below pounded by the crashing waves. High above, a boy sat a desk, staring out of the small window onto the walled gardens below. Austere even by Candlekeep's standards, the regimented shrubs were framed by a single row of roses, white and pale pink but for one sole, soft yellow bloom. Without turning, he felt his mentor's mood shift in the adjoining room beyond. The slight shuffle, the heavy wall-chest thrown open, the rustle of tapestries and velveteen drapes of four pillared bed, large enough for three, the near-silent, but tell-tale crush of the thick Thayan rug, its vivid reds ground underfoot by the ceaseless, pacing, each step a harsh thrust. Those heavy boots were rife with muck; their pungent stench worse than the Shou silk slippers Gorion frequented.

It didn't take long before Gorion's haggard face inevitable drew into view. Charnarion was wise enough to turn before the door flew open; Gorion was savvy enough to line the walls of both the cell and antechamber with tapestries to drown out the draughts and noise from his wont of slamming things. This, amongst other habits, were something Gorion refrained from exercising in the presence of others. For once, his excursion hadn't taken the better part of three days, and this time, he failed to mask his bloodshot eyes. The furrows lining his face were deep, his eye sockets sunken, and their shadows crept in deep crescents, his nose veined with purple. The vanity glamour must have run its course.

Charnarion coolly lifted his head and met that savage, unblinking stare that cut through him, through everything. To everyone else, Gorion's benevolence knew no bounds, but in private, malice stained him. Outwardly, his standards were high, and the other scholars praised him for his charity, lapping up his sagely wisdom and admiring his strictness with the 'boy', many of whom suspected was his bastard, despite his proclamation Charnarion was his dead sister's son. While Gorion never inferred Charnarion's mother was a victim of violence, the lack of mention of a father and spouse led some to speculate on Charnarion's illegitimacy, and so, he found himself beset with proverbs about 'bad seeds', 'apples' and 'trees', and well-meaning advice, all geared towards impressing upon him how grateful he should be, how fortunate he was, and what a wonderful father Gorion was.

More than once, Charnarion wondered what they would say if they knew the truth. Most would never believe it, while others would immerse themselves in the scandal, but ultimately, it would only serve to undermine him, Charnarion. Besides, Gorion's hypocrisy didn't affect him, or so he reasoned. What did it matter if Gorion was stuffy, prone to drink, dark rages, self-pity, self-hatred, and anguish? But that was before that one, fateful night. The skies had sighed loudly, the summer storms gathering for an especially violent onslaught. More drunk than usual, Gorion had stumbled in after another whoring session, clutching his bedraggled cloak, his wispy hair plastered to the sodden waxy leather. Spitting out the cork, he proceeded to down half a bottle of elven firewine and sprawling onto the crimson sheets with their gold embroidery, he confessed. Half stupor, half lucid, his mangled words were the ravings Charnarion would have dismissed were it not for the bright, almost sickly light in Gorion's haggard eyes. There was something that rang of truth.

That awful night, he learnt Gorion had no sister, had never had a sister, and the woman who bore him did not die in childbirth; Gorion murdered her. Gorion claimed it was to 'save' him. He claimed Aliana, an occasional lover, had fallen in with a dark cult, a cult that intended to sacrifice him and a dozen other babes. The latest bout of firewine saw Gorion's eyes roll back in his head, his nasal snore preventing any further discourse, but what he shared was disclosure enough. Child-stealer, murderer. Given the life he endured now, it might have been better if the cult had followed through uninterrupted. What right did Gorion have to interfere?

Between Gorion's half muttered drink-induced ramblings, Charnarion heard how 'beautiful' Aliana was, a formidable, proud woman, with sultry lips and smouldering emerald eyes, porcelain skin and hair of late summer wheat lit by sunlight. Whatever poetic ascription the old man had trailed off. It seemed clear to Charnarion that either his mother was a whore, or had terrible taste in men, or Gorion was lying. Then the old man's eyes opened, filmy with a sickly brightness and intensity that carried waves of hatred, his rancid mouth twisting. With something akin to grief, regret and perhaps, lustful longing, a kind of depraved hunger Charnarion didn't understand at the time, Gorion confided that Charnarion didn't merely favour his mother, he was her mirror. That every time he saw the boy, he was starring into her face, as if somehow, Aliana was staring back at him through the boy's soul. Becoming wild-eyed, Gorion started laughing madly, only to start belching, making his foul breath even worse.

The only other thing he could get out of the drunk was a single name: 'Arnarion'. Charnarion wasn't sure if that was his true father's name, or the name his mother intended for him. It didn't matter. He was used to Imoen's name-calling, 'Carrion', 'Clarion', 'Charnel house', 'Carnation'. It was her way of trying to get him to play. What she failed to understand was why would he want to play with a girl, especially one three or four years younger? She was the innkeeper's whelp, not his little sister, however she acted, and just because he was the closest in age, she didn't need to latch onto him.

Still, Charnarion tolerated her. It was better than enduring Gorion's hypocrisy. Every single day, the old fool disgraced himself. He wasn't as discreet as he thought. All the guards knew of his unsavoury habits, his sordid trips to Beregost. He paid them off to keep silent, but while their barracks talk never reached their superiors, Imoen overheard. Tasked with bringing them trays of ale flagons, eavesdropping on them and the inn's various guests, notably, visiting nobles and their servants, was her favourite pastime, a pastime she revelled in sharing with Charnarion. From her tattletales, Charnarion learnt more about everyone in Candlekeep than he had from years of wandering the halls and listening to their self-righteous drivel. Hypocrites, all of them. Imoen relayed how Gorion was forbidden from keeping whores in the keep, and how the inn kept a special reserve of firewine just for him. That titbit explained Gorion's periodic visits, in which he claimed he was visiting his friend 'Firebead', another lecherous old fool and Gorion's equal in long, pious sermons in virtue and heroism. The pair were uppity, rich in books and coin, whether from old money or self-made, and after a few drinks, tried to outdo each other about the exploits of their youth, relaying their heroics with self-gratifying grandiosity that made Charnarion want to vomit.

Gorion squandered his wealth and privilege. It became quite clear Charnarion his foster father would never change, but the final straw occurred one sunlit afternoon when Gorion humiliated Charnarion in front of Grand Duke Entar Silvershield. Duke Entar was no stranger to Candlekeep and held some past association with Gorion that stretched back decades. Quite what that was, Charnarion had never uncovered. During these little excursions, Entar would be accompanied by a company of guardsman, all in Silvershield livery, his son and daughter in tow. Upon the lawn, beneath the shade of the burgeoning trees, the two men walked side by side, and Gorion laid his hand on the Duke's shoulder. Gorion rarely displayed such overfamiliarity with those beneath his social standing, so it was clear by Entar's lack of outrage there was a certain understanding, at least to Charnarion's eye. While Imoen frolicked with Skie by the flowers, and Eddard, roughly four years Charnarion's senior, conversed easily with a young man that accompanied the entourage, one Ajantis, if Charnarion caught correctly, Gorion proposed an arrangement that turned Charnarion's blood to ice. Worse, Duke Entar seemed thoughtful, nodded, and the two shook hands. With that, Charnarion's future altered forever. At the tender age of eleven, Skie found herself waved over, and in a frilly skirt and layers of petticoats, she gazed up at her father, smiling brightly. That smile faded and her eyes widened as Entar conveyed the news, meeting Charnarion's eyes with a steady, seasoned stare. Just like that, the two found themselves betrothed, and haltingly, Skie obeyed her father and repeated the vows. While Imoen looked on, grinning gleefully, her own eyes huge, and Eddard, disinterested, stood to one side, Charnarion's knuckles turned white. Aware of his 'father's' gaze, and the repercussions of if he failed to obey, he repeated the vows listlessly. The two men nodded, shared dinner later that evening, and then the Silvershields departed. As the impact of what just happened slowly set in, Charnarion came to a decision, a decision he had toyed with since that one, awful night. Gorion had to die.


	2. 2: Baldur

2\. Baldur's Gate

The day he joined his new family, Charnarion was eleven and a half, Eddard Silvershield fourteen and on the cusp of his fifteenth year. The celebrations had been in no way dimmed by Charnarion's arrival, but while showing appropriate sympathy, Duke Entar welcomed the boy and added that he should partake, as, despite the unfortunate circumstances surrounding his entry, the Silvershield expansion was still cause for rejoicing. Tables draped with white were laden with silver dishes bearing fruits, spitted meats taken from the hunt in Cloakwood Forest, the hunters bagging fowl, venison, hares and various other game. Pork was served on a bed of vegetables, as were other wild birds, such as swans. Wine filled crystal-cut glasses, though Charnarion, at this point, was unable to identify the origin of the silverware, glasses, tapestries and carpets. Through the decadent aromas, he understood that the vast majority of imports were not simple vanity, but a declaration, a statement of the power and influence the Silvershields held, demonstrating their reach far beyond the city's walls. He also inherently understood that he was now part of that, and the signet ring Grand Duke Entar proudly placed on his hand, the Duke's strong fingers holding his wrist aloft, publicly included him in that legacy. Perhaps it was meant to blunt the grief Charnarion was supposedly feeling, or perhaps it was an announcement to the other leading families of the Gate. Regardless of Entar's reasons, it worked.

Few offered their sympathies beyond looks, while most congratulated him. Rather than detract from Eddard's glory, it seemed to enhance his standing, and most openly admired his father in their words to him. Hanging back, Charnarion contended himself to the outskirts of the hall, while Skie withdrew to an antechamber, and as soon as was proper, withdrew entirely. Others busied themselves in conversation, leaving Charnarion to zone out. Formally adopted by one of the four Grand Dukes and betrothed to Entar's daughter should have been a dream come true for most. In the coming days, Charnarion understood that his circumstances, while altered, did little to change his daily life. Entar himself had been otherwise occupied and unable to fetch him from Candlekeep, so Eddard and that dullard Ajantis, Eddard's social equal and apparent friend, though there was a slight difference in years between them, Ajantis being the older, had ridden with a small company of guardsmen. Charnarion had little to pack, and the manservants that accompanied Eddard simply loaded the baggage train with Gorion's personal effects, stripping the cell bare. Imoen, in the interim, had chosen to attempt to locate any hidden niches, nooks, and otherwise concealed hidey-holes. She left sorely disappointed, but between her looting spree, clung to Charnarion and begged to accompany him. He mentioned it wasn't up to him, but he would entreat Entar to her proposal, that perhaps she could serve as a housemaid. The offer left her nose wrinkled, and she sighed, vowing to write every day.

Of course, Imoen was in tears over Gorion's tragic death. Whatever could he have done to be knifed in his bed in one of the upper backrooms of the Feldpost Inn? It seemed like a simple robbery, since Gorion's purse was taken. Gorion never carried finery on his tenday visits, always travelling light. Only this time, Charnarion had tagged along; how horrid it must have been! The vagrant was never found but she hoped the Flaming Fist would catch and hang the thief responsible.

What Charnarion neglected to share with her was he was the one to mention to a less savoury type, Shank, the fellow's name was, as he bemoaned his debt, how fat Gorion's purse was. Shank, heavy into his cups, cracked open a bloodshot eye, and his disinclination to believe a strange man evaporated as Charnarion murmured of Gorion's wealth. Not a word of a lie. In exchange for the room key, Charnarion told Shank to leave the key in the door, that he wanted half the purse, and where to meet him afterwards. His instructions clear, he silenced Shank's final objection, and slid him a vanity glamour. Leaning in, he added in a coarse, low voice that the mark had a penchant for blondes. Shank even believed it and smirked. By the time Shank left, Charnarion's own vanity glamour wore off. No one would remember a scruffy youth, with soot-smeared hair. Before entering 'Firebead's' residence, he dunked his head in a troth, slipped into the clothes he had secreted in a barrel between the old elf's house and the neighbour's, and ensured that old Firebead spent the rest of the day and evening relaying his favourite tales. Firebead and Gorion had an understanding; if Charnarion was visiting, it was to be kept out from underfoot and Firebead was more than happy to have a captive audience. Once the old fool was deep in his cups, Charnarion slipped out, having chugged another vial. Outside of town, Shank met him at the southern copse.

Now he had the purse, Shank had no further reason to keep him alive, and the ragged, crooked nose man fidgeted with his dagger pommel. Observing him from afar, Charnarion quaffed a second vial, one pilfered from Gorion's chest. It was one that Gorion bragged about during his drunken fits, how he took the form of a crow and cut the journey time between Candlekeep and Beregost to mere minutes, 'as the crow flies', he would laugh. With that, Gorion would mix another vial, the concoction temporarily increasing his flight-speed. The old man spent days creating these batches, all to further his debauchery. Idly, Charnarion asked, during the bragging fest, how it was Gorion took the form of a crow; the reply was typically dismissive, as if Charnarion had no wit at all. Gorion took the form of a crow because he pictured a crow, he explained in terms meant for one especially slow. So Charnarion, having already tested a vial on the flight to Beregost with Gorion, was already versed in the process. Only this time, he chose the form of a wolf.

Self-defence or murder became moot once Shank drew his dagger at the first shifting shadow; the man always intended to rid himself of his 'partner'. As Charnarion's teeth sank into the man's wrist, crushing it, he dropped down, tugging the scrawny man, then savaging his throat. The experience was one that left Charnarion feeling both heightened in sense and sickened. It felt good, too good, and viewing the world in monochrome was an odd sensation. His nostrils detected a whole range of scents he never experienced in his normal form, and the notion of running on all fours was decidedly odd. Leaving Gorion's purse on the freshly blooded, still hot corpse, Charnarion retreated to the copse dragging the body behind him, the late summer ground dry, his paws leaving few prints beyond the crushed grass. Fur spattered with blood, Charnarion ensured to rub himself against the odd tree, and searched for a suitable hollow. The vial wore off, and as he transformed back into a boy, he quaffed another, becoming a crow, headed for the lake, bathing, and then back to Firebead's small, gated back garden and into the empty water barrel. By the time the potion had worn off, the moon had reached the midpoint, and as himself, he slipped back into Firebead's house, and onto his sleeping mat, locking the door behind him.

Gorion's magic had been purely for self-indulgence, the old mage preferring to brew potions over casting spells openly; for one, it took longer to chant the incantations than it did to down a vial, and for two, it was more discreet. The wards surrounding Candlekeep blocked most magic, or at the very least, triggered alarms, or so Gorion once lectured, so shrouding himself from sight was of no use. That particular spiel was after Charnarion's 'stupid' question when Gorion was half passed out on the four-posted bed after an especially long four-day trip. The potions tasted especially bitter but eating a sprig of mint helped. Gorion always carried mint on him. The old fool had no clue that Charnarion had planned out his demise since he was eight years old, that it had taken three years of planning, and he studied the various tomes of localised beasts and listened to how the harvests were failing, forest banditry was rife, driving the hungry wolves into the open. Gorion always underestimated him, always assumed he was nothing more than an ignorant child.

Firebead understood that Charnarion and Gorion arrived as crows, so Charnarion's minty breath left no lasting impression; why would it?

When the Flaming Fist came knocking a few days on, after Firebead commented that Gorion was taking 'longer than was usual', they broke the news. Charnarion, unable to shed tears, managed to look suitably stricken, as if his entire world had just collapsed and he couldn't understand what was happening or why, and Firebead finally proved useful, proving an airtight alibi. No one remembered the stranger speaking with Shank, and if they did, it was never connected back to Charnarion. Shank's disappearance around the time of Gorion's murder was noted, and while Shank wasn't identified, a body was found in the copse. Despite Firebead's inquiries, the Flaming Fist found little in the way of evidence, beyond a purse of coins and a mangled, mostly eaten corpse. It seemed there were other wolves that got to the body after Charnarion.

It appeared, as Charnarion watched Eddard's birthday celebrations, that he had escaped unscathed, although, his dreams were fired by the killing. He should have felt some remorse, some satisfaction. He felt empty, not numb, empty. If Gorion had any further answers, they died with him. That a plan so long in the making succeeded didn't fill Charnarion with delight. While he might have avenged a mother he never knew and rid himself of a tiresome old drunk whose dark rages he had borne the brunt of, there was just a sense of nothingness. He didn't feel as if he had gained, didn't feel as if anything was lacking. He made up his mind to kill Gorion in his heart on that dreadful night, slowly, wilfully detaching himself. Firebead believed him to be in a state of shock, or denial, as the old elf lamented the loss of his friend, and personally escorted Charnarion back to Candlekeep.

It didn't take long for word to reach Duke Entar and a few days later, here he was. Reflecting back on the day Firebead took him back to his antechamber in the keep, it occurred to him that Gorion's old room didn't feel emptier than usual. Then again, he was used to Gorion leaving for three to four days at a time every tenday. He didn't miss it. He didn't miss any of it.

A noise broke his reverie, and he glanced to his left. Several ladies clustered around one corner of the long table. Someone had knocked a piece of silverware off, spilling a chalice of wine in the process. Uncaring, he turned his gaze away. Their frills, long dresses with puffed sleeves, elaborately woven hair, jewels and gems were nothing new to him. He was quite used to visiting nobles and long since ceased to be impressed by their frivolity. Perhaps it was this cool that caused so many of those who greeted him to regard him strangely. Did they expect a gaping boy, a pauper who should be grateful? Or a brash, young fellow like his new brother Eddard, carrying himself with his head high and shoulders set? While he didn't slouch, he didn't puff out his chest, affecting indifference. Like Firebead, they mistook it for grief and shock, the loss of a father cutting so deep that several ladies laid comforting, long-gloved hands on his forearm, shoulder, their consolations no different to the fools in Candlekeep with their advice and proverbs.

After the third such wave of pitiful gazes, as though he were a stray puppy brought in from the rain, he realised he despised them all. Their wealth made no difference: they might have their own rules for society, but they still looked down on him, pitied him, envied him. Even those who held genuine sympathy, who wanted to mother him, who made loud murmurings that Duke Entar really ought to remarry, for the sake of his children, grated. If they really cared so much, why were there so many vagabonds lining the streets as he, Ajantis and Eddard rode through the city? At first, he had been impressed by the city's grandeur, its high walls, its rows and rows of plastered buildings, but that soon wore off. It was no different to Beregost, except in size, and the Ducal Palace they passed might as well have been a more ornate Candlekeep. A fortress surrounded by shops, houses, and two rings of walls, just as Candlekeep held two rings of walls. The noise and stench helped quash his awe. He had never seen so many people, never seen so many stalls, but as Eddard mentioned they were passing from one district to another, he understood. It really was no different to a town, except in size. The sheer number of people began to make him feel ill, especially with the pungent stink rising up from the sewer grates. Eddard commented that they needed another good storm.

Charnarion chose to remain silent. Silence served him so well during Gorion's sober hours, when his tutors lectured him endlessly, demanding he pay attention by asking menial questions, questions that involved him reciting back whatever it was they just imparted. It didn't take long to grasp their 'wisdom', their 'knowledge', held little in the way of practical application. Asking questions was seen as impertinence. It was not his place to question, only to accept. And so, he kept his mouth shut. The true art was learning when to speak and when not to, how to feign paying attention while holding whatever was said in the forefront of his mind, if only in order to parrot it back. As he observed the snippets of conversation, he realised that most of what was said was meaningless but carried hidden meanings. This wasn't a new revelation, since he observed those visiting Candlekeep. Only the nobility could afford to pay its entrance tariff, so with the rare exception of a replacement guardsman or servant, those who entered through its gates were the same as those who frequented Duke Entar's hall. They hadn't impressed him in Candlekeep and didn't impress him now.


	3. 3: Silvershield Estate

3\. Silvershield Estate

As the days passed, Charnarion's initial impressions were solidified. From the encounters he'd already had with Eddard, the Duke's son continued to prove himself dull. Interested only in knights, he was training to join the Order of the Radiant Hart, and sparred with Ajantis, who was himself a squire, whenever he could. Often away, he was more likely to be found in the grounds than in the drawing rooms, and when he was inside, he was cramming for the tests. In the evenings, he would excuse himself, staying only briefly for the harpsicord. He didn't indulge in wine, at least, not in front of his family, but from the lack of raucous quips and jibs he and Ajantis should have shared but didn't, it would have surprised Charnarion if the pair frequented taverns and went whoring. Their lack of rapacious tales only etched his dullness further, and the pair's idealistic optimism and fervent devotion to 'honour' grated. So, Charnarion simply avoided them.

One afternoon, Ajantis, eyes shining, listened to Eddard, his own gaze alight, as they discussed the merits of valour on and off the battlefield, and whether or not glory could be won without battle. In spite of his moderately sheltered life, even Charnarion understood the world was very different. As they dreamt of garnering a name, having each others' backs as they stood against surrounding foes, Charnarion tried to slip away. The shaded tree was becoming his favourite spot, but unfortunately, the pair loved to spar in the grass right in front of it. That was when Ajantis pressed, demanding Charnarion's take on knightly honour. The answer in Charnarion's mind was clear: knights upheld their feudal lords, who in turn sent them out from their strongholds to oppress the weak, levying taxes and terrorising their subjects with the vocal or unspoken threat of violence if the workforce ever stepped out of line. The lords invested in shipping and passed laws ensuring their wealth, so the lesser merchants paid tribute. Mages and clerics partook in the social order, many drawn from the wealthy's ranks. For some, riches bred arrogance, for others, generosity. Poverty did the same. But decadence? Decadence always bred boredom. And to Skie, almost of an age with Charnarion, he was a bore, as was her brother and Ajantis.

Instead of answering with what he knew, Charnarion simply shrugged, and asked who was mostly likely to war with them. This set Ajantis off on another long spiel, while Eddard seemed to consider the question. Before either answered, Charnarion slipped away, a more pressing question tugging on his mind. Why would Duke Entar accept the betrothal, especially after Gorion's untimely end?

Later that evening, when Skie and Eddard, with Ajantis, took to the theatre, and somehow dragging Charnarion along, although he wasn't entirely sure who insisted; the question continued to dog him. Gorion had nothing, nothing he ever mentioned. Upon becoming his legal guardian, Entar took possession of everything. Could there be a connection between Entar and Gorion? Yet, in the following months, Charnarion noted a visible increase in the Silvershields' prosperity. Their prestige rose, and their estate was built up, the old façade remodelled, and four new wings added. Stone imported from Mirabar-through-Luskan, wood from Neverwinter, and various household paraphernalia, from Thay, Waterdeep, Athkatla, Calimshan and all manner of places.

Duke Entar himself was physically distant, but sociable whenever he encountered Charnarion, more present than Gorion despite his frequent absence. A clap on the shoulder at breakfast, a warm, encouraging nod, a fatherly hand laid on his cheek at the end of after-dinner drinks. Unused to this style of affection, Charnarion recounted that Imoen was the only one to ever ruffle his hair, and fortunately, Entar refrained from that. Occasionally, he would coach him, observing Eddard and Charnarion's rare sparring bouts, and sometimes joining in. A patient man, the duke was sparse in his praise, his criticism constructive, but he seemed to prefer a man to figure out his own mistakes. When he did point out a mishap, it usually took the form of 'What was the cause of this?'. Of course, Eddard usually knew, and Entar always knew. When he did spar, with words or a blade, the duke was controlled, measured, allowing his opponent to expose their weakness before Entar saw them overreach themselves. He also was not afraid to overwhelm Eddard with a barrage or knock him down with the point of his elbow or back of his hand, or buckler. He always offered a hand up, but after launching an assault, the duke always stepped back. This cautious approach was one that resonated with Charnarion, and he found himself drawn to study Entar's pattern, his respect for the man slowly, unknowingly growing. Eddard attempted to style himself after his father, but he was also fashioned by Ajantis, the two attempting to gain the upper hand as swiftly as possible. There was little patience, some defence, but mostly the honourable, decisive strike that assured victory. Entar also achieved a decisive victory, but only after wearing down a foe, studying him, and housing a formidable defence. In conversation, his words were measured, few, and always poignant. He lifted a glass in toast while never breaking eye contact, never displaying nervousness, excitement, or regret. The duke was only ever calm.

In private, he instructed Eddard with the same reasoned command he used on Charnarion. The duke never treated either of them as dull, slow, or foolish, but held them to the same high standard he held himself to. As far as Charnarion could ascertain, there was no difference between how Entar regarded Eddard or Charnarion himself. This acceptance, at first left him bewildered, as though he were somehow really a son, not the hostage of a vassal or underprivileged waif. He might still a piece on a board, but if he was, so were Entar and Eddard, and they were on the same side. Entar did not fly into dark rages but displayed temperance. Those times he was home, he spent time reading, calmly discussing household affairs with his major-domo, listening to reports from his children's governess, organising trade. When he wasn't doing that, he was out in the yard, sometimes sparring with Eddard, sometimes wandering along the tree lined grounds. Not only was Entar was a very different sort of man to Gorion, he was consistent. Gorion, too, had been consistent, but Charnarion was hard-pressed to unearth hypocrisy on Entar's part. For a man who didn't raise his voice, Charnarion innately understood it would be a mistake to underestimate Entar or mistake his courteous manner for weakness. He held no doubt the Duke could be ruthless when necessary. He wasn't entirely sure how he recognised the steel in the man, but he did.

As for Charnarion himself, he found himself adapting to his new life quite readily. He was given silks, velvets, tutors, dressed in browns and silvers, and shared a governess with Skie and many of the same lessons. The matron was Eddard's old governess, he swiftly learnt, and like Entar, treated him as though he had always been there. Skie sat in on his dance and music lessons, often proving herself most apt with the harpsichord, but mostly finding things bland and creating ways to entertain herself. Charnarion couldn't blame her. The only thing she truly seemed to enjoy was history, one of the few subjects he actually knew more about than she did, at least in theory. In reality, he drowned out most of his tutors, but years of their instilled words bubbled to the surface and he was able to recite it without thought. As far as his analysis of the subject matter went, Skie was far ahead of him, and his lack of interest didn't help. Frustrated by the one thing they could have had in common, she gave up on him and resumed her solo studies, pouring through old tomes, pausing long enough only to ask him something and once he rattled off an answer, she returned to her text.

While workmen clamoured about on the scaffold that enshrouded the great house, pre-cut lumber and stone being hauled and further cut, only one thing disrupted the Silvershield routine that Charnarion had become part of. Her name was Cythandria, the mover and shaker of Baldurian high society. Having established her place at the mere age of twenty around two years ago, the golden haired, porcelain beauty in green placed herself squarely on Entar's arm to the envy of all.


	4. 4: The Iron Crisis

4\. The Iron Crisis

In the months that followed, the number of balls, banquets, dinner parties and theatre trips, alongside other expenses, such as jewels and silks, more than quadrupled. Cythandria became a permanent fixture at Entar's side, staying in her luxury townhouse when not at arm. As she flaunted his success, she set the fashion of the day, gaining her duke even more wealth as she donned his imports. Though many years his junior, she behaved as his equal, distancing herself from his children, lest comparisons be drawn.

At the height of this extravagance, disaster struck. The shipping to the New World the Silvershields invested so heavily in suffered a series of catastrophes. Storms, pirates, and their mercantile rivals undercut their stock. A fire in the docks crippled much of the wintering fleet. All this was made worse but the onset of a plague. From out of nowhere, it ravaged the city. They said it started in the mines, from contamination. No one knew who started the rumours, but soon, it seemed, the whole city was talking about it, and it was on everyone's lips. As the dead started to mount up, a foreign merchant house arose. While the Silvershields' fortunes waned, the Sembian-led company's meteoric rise took many unawares. Years of failing harvests gave way to desperation, the banditry extending to within the city's wealthier districts. Street gangs fought openly, vying for territory and controlling the struggling shops with intimidation. More and more fell prey to the plague. As dozens became hundreds, and hundreds became thousands, the city was sealed. No imports from the other mercantile city-states, no imports from the New World's colonies. 'They' dubbed the plague the 'Iron Crisis'. Unable to halt the plague, the city's clergy were overwhelmed, and anger was turned towards the Grand Dukes. Martial law was declared.

Cythandria abandoned her lover, the wearied widower Entar, for another mercantile prince, the handsome and mysterious son of Reiltar Anchev, the heir-apparent of the man who headed the Sembian company. Presumptuously, 'they' named the company the 'Iron Throne'. Conveniently, the Sembians supplied a cure, breaking the quarantine to bring in much-needed medicinal supplies, aiding the beleaguered and exhausted healers. In Sembia, Reiltar claimed, plague was common. Having employed Thayan magi, upon obtaining samples from the current plague, they had devised an antidote. They worked around the clock to distribute the antidote to the people, setting their rates according to the city districts. The poor and lesser merchant families proclaimed them saviours, while the rich could afford to retain their own clergy.

A small, but growing group declared the plague was of Amnish origin, a foul plot that those in Athkatla, city of coin, deliberately planted, or knew about and allowed to happen anyway. Why hadn't Amn taken measures to quarantine the infected miners? Hadn't the plague started in the town of Nashkel, spread to Beregost, and then then into the Gate itself? Why hadn't the Amnish guard stopped the wagons? And most of all, why hadn't Amn itself been affected? Athkatla was free of plague, while in the Gate, the plague raged for the better part of three years. One in four perished, except for the rich, who survived with few, if any, fatalities. Not everyone could afford magical warding, binding enchantments, and the exotic components the spellcasters demanded. The northern districts were sealed by a chain of hastily erected mage towers, the houses between the barrier pulled down. Those who approached without permits were shot on sight, and those with permits were cautioned against venturing out.

The Flaming Fist retreated north, abandoning their southwestern citadel entirely. The Seven Suns trading company headquarters was left to burn, the merchants having fled long before the looting started. Each district was cut off from its neighbour, shops and houses ripped down, and food became scarce. The only supplies were by the few wagon trains and ships that operated in the city outskirts, set at designated points and heavily reimbursed. The Flaming Fist took charge of the shipments and distributed them from designated centres. Black marketeering soared, and the illicit elements of the city grew fat on the proceeds, though many did not survive to retire in luxury. Almost as many were claimed by the knife as by the plague, with rioting, looting, and vendettas carried out on an almost hourly basis. Warded by spells, the Flaming Fist strung up anyone found looting, but their numbers were too few to enforce order.

Despite his efforts, Duke Entar was able to do little, and regret hung heavy as he wiled away his days in his study, searching for anything that might lend itself towards a cure. The dinner parties stopped, the balls ceased, but only in the Silvershield estate. Elsewhere, life went on as usual, the theatre being the highlight of an evening, and sumptuous banquets enjoyed by all but the few who sided with the Silvershields, those killjoys who refused to live life to the full while the commonfolk were stricken. Those revelling in excess revelled all the more, believing that although they were safe, the plague could still take them at any moment, and therefore, saw no reason to hold back. The decadence soon overwhelmed any past excess they enjoyed while the city was healthy, and as the vice increased, many who formerly partook fell away, sickened as all former limits were surpassed. Leading the foray into this new, luxurious lifestyle were a group that formerly surrounded Cythandria. While Cythandria distanced herself from her former acquaintances, instead spending her efforts on Reiltar's son and removing herself from society's eye, the anger from the common people grew.

Duke Entar refused to send Charnarion and Skie away, while Eddard, now a fledging paladin, enjoyed the protection of Helm, his patron deity. Ajantis, no longer a squire, joined his friend, and both were stationed in Athkatla, in the knightly headquarters for the Order of the Radiant Heart.

Aged sixteen, a few days shy of his seventeenth year, Charnarion found himself in the Silvershield Estate's third drawing room, located on the second storey, as he endured a tedious lecture about economics, the burgeoning market, and trade opportunities. With the end of the plague, labour was in short supply. The Iron Throne moved to bring in mercenaries to help restore order, fronting a third of the necessary funds. The two remaining Grand Dukes reluctantly agreed, Entar visibly aged from the rigours of his post. A hero to the people, Reiltar was set to fill the third seat of the Council of Four, while the fourth remained vacant. Once the fear of the plague had dissipated, migrant workers would be drawn, and higher wages demanded. The city would swiftly thrive, Charnarion's tutor droned on, if the lawlessness could be suppressed. The middling classes' fortune might rise, but local businesses could be capitalised on. Everything would need to be rebuilt, providing the opportunity for vast, new landscaping. In particular, the shipping would need restoring, and through the right amount of taxation, the Silvershields and other grand families would more than make up for the shortfall they suffered. Indeed, loss of life aside, the plague would actually benefit the city, economically and culturally speaking.

For Charnarion, life had altered little during the plague. While his governess and some of the maids took on the role of seamstress, standards were upheld, though more frugally than the pre-Cythandria days. There was almost universal approval amongst the female servants that she no longer darkened their door, but mixed reactions amongst the male staff, especially the footmen and guardsman. During those three years, lessons continued, and while dinner parties were seldom, relegated to sombre, sparing dinners, mostly of broths, stews and watered-down wine, and after-dinner drinks were cancelled, there was still the occasional, then more frequent, visitor. Trips to the theatre ceased, and Skie had to find her own entertainment, namely the harpsichord. Charnarion was not one for games, but one or two of the maids indulged Skie's attempts at organising 'hide and go seek', tennis on the lawn, catch, and tag. Anything to avoid the tedium of embroidery and long lectures on etiquette and ladylike behaviour. While Entar did not allow himself the luxury of leisure, to Skie's frustration, Charnarion found unwittingly himself following his guardian's example, while the Duke looked on in silent approval. Never once had he demanded Charnarion accost himself to the Iron Crisis as he did. Accused of being a spendthrift at the onset, Duke Entar was held in high regard by the end, in stark contrast to those reviled for their excess. Some of the common people appreciated his consideration, but most did not.

Martial law remained, and supplies were strictly regulated. Duke Entar issued a public statement claiming it would be lifted once the city was rebuilt, with a focus on the housing and commercial centres first. It was a pledge he would honour in the coming months, as he funded relief efforts from his own dwindling pocket. Many accused him of a guilty conscience, but many more were grateful. The provisions he made kept those who had lost everything but their lives from destitution.

It was something Charnarion took note of and did not soon forget.


	5. 5: Skie by Day

5\. Skie by Day

It was the month of Myrtle. As a warm late afternoon breeze swirled around him, Charnarion sat beneath his favourite tree. Absently, he thumbed and broke the seal of a letter, one addressed to him and Skie. He turned it over. Its mark hailed from Candlekeep, bearing the scrawl of his childhood acquaintance, Imoen, who still insisted on keeping in touch. She sent an endless stream of letters, filled with the nonsense of trivial life, great concern for their welfare, and her ramblings and drawings. He rarely replied, but somehow, at some point, Imoen and Skie had hit it off, and she did reply with equal frequency, in spite of their circumstances. While Skie didn't care if he read them, in fact, she didn't care what he did, this time, Imoen's news was of interest. Knights from the Shield, from Athkatla, were due to arrive in Candlekeep soon. Word had been sent ahead, and although the meeting was supposedly secret, Imoen had pieced together fragments and couldn't wait to share the news with someone. Besides, by the time the letter arrived, the knights would already be there.

It coincided with Entar's announcement at dinner last night. While he rarely announced his plans, he informed Charnarion and Skie that he and Reiltar were visiting Candlekeep on business. Skie began to ask to tag along, but her father cut her short with a single headshake. For once, she didn't pout, perhaps in part due to the seriousness in Entar's heavy gaze. By now, despite his attempts to hold himself tall, the Duke's shoulders slumped, almost subconsciously. Now and then, he caught himself, straightening, as if surprised he was not perfectly poised.

Returning to the present, Charnarion released the scrap of parchment with its large sprawling hand, and extravagant loops in fawning mimicry of Skie's neat flourishes. Over the past few years, Imoen's scrawl had changed. She absolutely adored Skie. He saw only a spoilt, well-bred girl, who found dolls and frills, embroidery and boys boring and stupid. In four days, they would wed. The whole city knew. Their engagement would culminate in a modest two-day celebration, involving street parties for the disenfranchised, a way of alleviating the rising tension between the classes, with the wine, ale and celebratory pies provided out of Duke Silvershield's purse. After that, a day of piety would follow, and then the preliminary vows they made over four years ago would be renewed and sealed. That day would mark her coming of age. A day later, Reiltar's coronation would occur, officially recognised by his two peers. Duke Entar would enthrone him. It would be his final act before setting off for Candlekeep.

A tenday later, a formal memorial was due to be held for the victims of the plague, with an obelisk erected in each district, bearing the names of those lost and missing. Some would hold entire families. The plague census had taken months. The memorial would be followed by the launch of the first of the new ships, to give hope to the people. This whole carefully arranged schedule had taken Entar from the Silvershield estate and situated him in the Ducal Palace, along with many other matters of state. A lack of judges ensured that justice had to be meted out by the highest order in the land, that of the Grand Dukes.

Looking up, Charnarion folded the parchment and left the tree, inwardly bracing himself for his tutor's drone. Skie had already skipped out of afternoon lessons. She wasn't required to learn economics. Stocks and shares, an emerging concept, meant even less to her than it did him. Heading towards the hall-sized gnomish glasshouse, a project Entar approved right before the Iron Crisis, Charnarion found her cross-legged on one of the long planting tables. Her brown tresses framed a girlish face, her flushing cheeks still holding their baby-fat. Skie was everything Cythandria was not: moderate in height, not exactly blocky, but slow to fill out, and prone to stuffing her mouth with sweet tarts in defiance of their governess when they dined alone. She wasn't vulgar, and she wasn't graceful, but that was purposeful. She slouched whenever they weren't in public, refused face powders and perfumes, and left her hair sloppy. The only exception was when Entar was around, which was infrequently at best. For him, Skie transformed herself, perfectly sweet, a doting daughter with exquisite manners. She didn't hold a candle to Cythandria, the leading lady of the Gate. Not that it bothered Charnarion. In point of fact, it barely registered. Were it not for the comments of maids, he might not even have noticed at all.

The low servants' gossip claimed the courtesans of the Undercellar styled themselves after Cythandria, with powders, even glamours for their rich patrons. Little girls longed to be her, and older girls sighed with envy, fawning and playing at imitating her even more than their younger counterparts.

During formal gathers, dinner parties, and outside the theatre, footmen swapped scandals and lurid tales. For a few coins, they shared these most freely. While Charnarion's allowance was limited, he learnt early on what the true weapons of the Gate were. And, as much as he was loathe to admit it, while the brunt of his education was completely useless, it had not been an utter waste of time: he only needed to repeat back the gossip to himself thrice, and it was ingrained. A few more coins saw a scribe jot down his encoded narration, for a work he was composing, a fiction, dubbed 'Upper City Life'. It wouldn't take much to break the cypher, but it was a catalogue of the goings-on, a log to remind him if he ever needed the ammunition.

Stepping out of his reverie, Charnarion was distinctly aware Skie had resumed reading her book, pointedly ignoring his presence. It slowly dawned on him that he had never really stopped to consider her feelings, or his own, on their upcoming marriage. It was not something he could avoid, and he held no great feelings towards it either way. It was rare he had any feeling to anything at all, at least beyond a surface level. Several long-legged step carried him closer, and he deposited the folded letter beneath her nose. Slowly, she looked up, lips pursed, eyes cold. He could have spoken, could have tried to mend the distance between them, but didn't. Uncertain of what to say, he fell back into old habits, silence his ever-present ally. Even if he had known, he had no great desire to voice his thoughts, let alone his heart.

Instead, he admired the white-painted glasshouse. Fully pumped and heated, the glasshouse towered to three storeys at its apex, two storeys at its wings. A costly experiment, it stood as a testament to gnomish ingenuity, an attempt to grow the plants of Chult and Maztica in a cooler climate. The glasshouse boasted a variety of species brought back by those in Fort Beluarian, along with coffee and chocolate from Maztica. As it turned out, Skie and Charnarion did share one common love: kaeth, or coffee, made from ground reddish beans. Skie preferred hers unbearably sweet, mixed with vast quantities of chocolate, Sembian style, while Charnarion simply drank his plain. She also had a penchant for Cormyr-style Brackleberry jam, made up of strawberries, gooseberries, currants, and/or raspberries. At least some of those, with varying success, were grown here.

He remembered how, if successful, Entar intended to develop the glasshouse, with plans to extend it and build another two, long halls in the estate. That was before the Iron Crisis, before their wealth was heavily depleted. Of all the projects, this one might prove the most lucrative. Although costly to run, its proceeds more than made up for the shortfall. Silently, Charnarion ran his hand along one of the raspberries canes.

Skie looked up, her soft, brown eyes stony. In low, harsh tones, she demanded he either leave, or stop aimlessly wandering. He stopped, and slowly turned. He hadn't really been aware he had left her side. Part of him registered that this was another opportunity, a chance to right things. He might not have another. Still uncertain what to say, he extended her an invitation, to join him at the theatre that night. Her eyes bowled, then her face contorted, and she turned away, her shoulders slumping. Surprise ran through him. He couldn't be entirely sure, but was that shame? Or guilt? It occurred she might have other plans, but with who? With a shrug, he headed towards the door. Her haltering voice stopped him, a note of shyness creeping in. He waited. Finally, unable to meet his eyes, she ventured her confirmation, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, she smiled at him. It wasn't a half smile, or a false smile, but something hopeful, a deep longing in her gaze as it locked onto his. Her hands seemed to reach out, though never shifted from her knees, and somehow, in that moment, everything changed.

He wasn't sure how long they stared at each other, how long her smile held, but her whole body seemed to reach, her back arching as her chest inclined towards him. In that instant, the annoying girl who never cared to have him as a fiancé or a stand-in brother vanished; in her place, Charnarion saw a young woman, desperate, with hopes and dreams of her own, hopes that were almost frantic, dreams that seemed so far from her reach. How he ended up sitting cross-legged before her was lost to him; who moved first to link hands also drew a blank. All he remembered, later, was how they sat, not in mute, uncomfortable silence, but in closeness, the years of distance eroding as words spilled her… …and from him. He didn't know which one of them spoke first, only that it was as a ruptured dam, and with its first leak sprung, the whole wall came crashing down, and years and years of feelings bombarded him, rising up and clenching his throat. His heart wrenched, his gut knotted, his innards constricted, and he couldn't speak, but the tears streamed down his cheeks, his fingers closing, tightening and gripping hers. Not the slender, long fingers of Cythandria, but fingers that held a delicacy all of their own, a dancer's grace. With the tears came a wall, invisible, rising, thick, impenetrable _feeling_. Overwhelming, it choked the air from his lungs, his throat, and then it broke, stillness following. This was an understanding still, and later, he recalled how Skie simply watched, gently wiping her own lids dry, then hesitantly thumbing his. That thumb led the way for her palm to brush his cheek, then her fingers curled around his jaw, and he leaned in. After that, the long seconds shattered, and her arms wrapped around him, pressing him tightly to her. His own encircled her, and she, too, sobbed like he had. After that, there was another still, and that's when the words came.

He told her about Gorion, about his life in Candlekeep, about Imoen, about everything. Everything except for how he removed Gorion from his life. He shared that awful, terrible night, the night that changed everything. The knot that he held within for so, so long, the knot that had become a stone so lodged in his chest, he forgot it was ever there. The knowledge of the man who raised him being his mother's murderer, knowing that that man was all he had in the realms. Skie wept for him, the tears trailing silently down her cheeks, her eyes wide as her hands squeezed his thigh. No longer cross-legged, her knees tucked beneath her, she held herself with a litheness he'd never noticed before. In those moments, he picked out exquisite details about her. Finally, she understood, she showed him with her eyes, her touch. In mute comprehension, she realised how losing the man he despised, who he depended on, who abandoned him, had left deeper scars than he himself understood.

Then it was Skie who spoke, relaying the loss of her own mother, the anguish at her often-absent father, and then her brother, whom she used to adore so much, who grew disinterested and went away. How Ajantis fawned over her in his own way. Then her cheeks coloured, and she spoke of another, a more recent encounter. Eldoth, she named him, shaking her head, her tresses covering her reddening cheeks. She snuck out to hear him sing his bawdy tavern folksongs, his voice the way she imagined a celestial to sound like. Charnarion didn't say anything. Skie defended herself, self-consciously denying her infatuation. Then he touched her shoulder, and her chin dropped. Quietly, she admitted she was going to meet her bard that very night, that Eldoth had promised kisses and more. Then her eyes lifted and locked onto his. She wasn't going to go, she vowed softly, holding onto his hands.

She didn't tell him how much it meant he finally opened up to her, that she always knew there was something. She didn't say how everything he said struck her to her core, how so much of it resonated. She didn't need to. While she hadn't experienced the dark rages he had, she understood abandonment, of sealing herself up, distancing herself from everyone around her. She didn't blame him for hiding in a wardrobe as a child, anywhere to escape Gorion's dark rages and even darker despair. With words, she relayed she couldn't imagine how lonely it must have been, how he couldn't bring himself to open up to Imoen for fear of losing her. Then, slowly, she kissed him, her closed lips pressing hesitantly, then firmly against his cheek. Her hand found his, her fingers interlacing, and determination entered her gaze.

Together, they left the glasshouse, Skie leading him to the kitchens, and once her instructions were followed, she took him outside, to her tree swing north of his favourite spot, around the side of the house and set back, and there, pressed up against each other, they shared kaeth. She remembered how he liked it.


	6. 6: Skie by Night

6\. Skie by Night

As Charnarion lay awake in bed that night, he viewed the cloudless skies. Most of the stars were obscured, blotted out by the glow from the new-fangled gnomish gaslights Duke Entar had installed around the city. They were, by all accounts, there to make the city safer, much to the dismay of many who used the shroud of night to pass unseen. These gaslights were the delight of many of the city's surviving mages, who overnight began brewing vials that would shroud the drinker from sight. These fetched such high prices that Entar and the other leading figures of the city orchestrated a city-wide ban, threatening to revoke the license of any mage practitioner found brewing such vials within the city. The license was another new innovation, installed after the plague, and 'borrowed' from Athkatla. The annual revenue alone from the mage licenses greatly aided with the refurbishment efforts. Several voices rose up in opposition but given how the proceeds went directly to the rebuilding effort, such protests were seen as 'unpatriotic' and quickly quietened down.

The Merchant's League also accepted new restrictions, such as the city owning and leasing ships. The ships and cargo were insured by the league, but until their fleets were rebuilt, the ships were essentially on loan. As with the mages' licences, the proceeds from the ship leases also were funnelled into the construction of new ships. Additionally, the stocks and shares were opened up to the city's commonfolk, allowing them a chance to invest in one third of all ships' cargo. Many were sceptical, but Entar led by example, and in his wake, others followed, not least Reiltar, who was not to be outdone by the wearied duke.

The Iron Throne pledged to bring in a labour force, and contracts with Thay and Sembia were struck up, the purchase of slaves, which, Reiltar publicly pledged to free, the bulk of this transaction. At the same time, the Black Talons, primarily funded by the Iron Throne, rooted out those accused of looting, treating rioters as insurgents, and filling the Flaming Fist's prisons to the brim. While Entar negotiated a city-wide pardon, those privately in Reiltar's employ opposed him. The Black Talons' ruthless pursuit of Reiltar's 'justice' saw homes raided, citizens suspected of harbouring criminals dragged off the streets for questioning, and the number of arrests climbed almost overnight.

Many in the Flaming Fist disliked these strong-armed tactics, and an intense rivalry developed between the Black Talons and the weakened Flaming Fist. In spite of Entar's recruitment campaign, only a handful signed on as recruits, and of those, only a few made the cut. The lure of a steady salary was hard to resist, but the Fist's orange still was resented by the urban populace, who remembered the restrictive rationing during the plague. Some of the Fist abused their power, took bribes, and in spite of the gallows that were erected for them, mistrust still ran high. Many believed that to join the Fist was to betray their own, and families kept their young men from accepting Entar's offer. The brutality of the Black Talons only served to reinforce their doubt, but there was little Entar could do to stem their methods. There were many areas of lawlessness still left in the city, and the street gangs opposed the law with vindictive violence, often striking at those off-duty as they drank from their flagons in the southern districts' taverns. More than one tavern was burnt to the ground, the doors barred and windows from the outside. This only brought harsher reprisals. For the present, the nobles and richer merchant families were left alone, but Entar suspected it would only be a matter of time before things got completely out of hand, or so he warned Charnarion in a rare moment of disclosure. Knowing not to press, Charnarion held his peace, but Entar's shoulders slumped as he made for his armed chair at his desk. It was then light came back into the Duke's eyes, the sorrow of the past and the hope of the future, as he advised and counselled Charnarion for marriage to his beloved daughter.

Had it been that advice that caused Charnarion to seek Skie out earlier that afternoon? He wasn't sure. Part of him always wondered, always suspected that somehow, Entar knew. Over the years, the Duke's perception had not escaped him; surely, Gorion's abrupt death at the hands of a brigand had raised Entar's eyebrow. Surely, the Duke would have launched his own private investigation? Why then, would Entar still take him in, he, a murderer? Once again, Charnarion buried that dark secret deep, deep inside. Deeper than the stone the knot about his mother had become. No one could ever know. Gorion might not have been a man with evil intent in his heart, but he was still a killer. Now he, Charnarion was too.

A small part of him questioned if he was better off, if perhaps, he simply could have asked to live in Duke Entar's household. If Gorion's death was unnecessary. Another, long forgotten part of him resisted, whispering that Gorion deserved to die. That Aliana deserved to be avenged, that no other would have believed the truth even if the truth had surfaced. The only one capable of dispensing justice was he, Charnarion, and he had. The small voice whispered that Aliana would have been proud of him.

That caused him to sit bolt upright. How could any part of him possibly know that, know what Aliana would have wanted? No mother would be proud of the son he'd become. Dismissing the thought as a passing fancy, he couldn't quite shake that perhaps there was more to it. Another part challenged him, not the malicious, dark whisper, but a more reasonable insistence, informing him that Duke Entar was proud to call him his son.

As he sank back down into the pillow, he considered the significance of the day ahead. Before looking forward, he found himself looking back, with the realisation of how rarely he thought of Candlekeep, and how he had all but forgotten Gorion until earlier that afternoon. Little had truly changed: his education had broadened, his surroundings now sumptuous compared to the supposed monastic cells of Candlekeep, merely lacked the spectre of Gorion. Gorion invested in the finest silks, his quarters more extravagant, more garish than anything Charnarion enjoyed in the Silvershield estate. For all his apparent wealth, even at its height, Entar was modest when it came to displaying finery in the upper rooms, for the most part. The remodelling of the estate provided jobs for the people, Entar claimed, back before the family shipping fell to ruin. Much of the work had to be cancelled, and some of the scaffold around the partially constructed western wing remained to this day. At the time, Charnarion rolled his eyes, commenting inwardly 'how selfless', but now, he truly believed it was, taking back his earlier sarcasm. Time and again, Entar tried to care for the people of the city, time and again, he was rebuffed.

When it came to the necessities, though, Entar spared little expense. His staff were satisfied, many of them either decades in his service, or having grown up on his estate, his guards were well-armed, and his ships were free of scurvy, their crews healthy, well paid, well fed and were allowed a portion of the hold to bring back their own wares. Eddard's armour was sublime, as was his education. Now, Duke Entar's consistent modesty won him respect. He and his didn't gamble, and his only true excess had been Cythandria, while it lasted. Reiltar was the opposite of frugal. Charnarion only met the man a few times, but those glacial eyes had always dismissed him. Sarevok, Reiltar's son and heir-apparent, was of an age with Cythandria, and spared even less time on Duke Entar's whelps than Reiltar did. It was only fair to point out, Charnarion inwardly acknowledged, that he held as little interest in Sarevok as Sarevok did in him. Cythandria never spared him more than a passing glance, though for years, she was the standard to which he held a lady to, at least in appearances. Now he couldn't help but question if maybe, just maybe, he had been mistaken. But then, hadn't even Grand Duke Entar Silvershield fallen for her wiles? Or perhaps the Duke never fell at all but allowed her a place on his arm. Entar could rarely be accused of frivolity, but no one was infallible. Could it be he was simply lonely, that he was enchanted by such a gorgeous young, articulate woman? Was there political gain in bedding her, or was it person? Both? But she left him for Sarevok.

Charnarion had to wonder at that. Was it possible that the marriage between Entar and Skie's mother was arranged? Had the Duke had other lovers? None of the staff mentioned it, but then again, they wouldn't. They respected their lord far too much. Skie certainly never made mention of anyone else, but until today, she never confided in him. Perhaps Entar knew all along Cythandria would leave him. Perhaps he hoped she wouldn't? The duke seemed more tired after the plague, though perhaps it was Cythandria's departure that affected him too. Switching lovers hadn't gained her any popularity, but no one truly seemed surprised either. Perhaps it was he, Charnarion, who was sheltered, ignorant and small-minded. Perhaps, he shouldn't expect Skie to live or to stay faithful. It never occurred to him to seek out another, but Skie had done just that. She had found a man with whom she would have given herself to. He couldn't blame her. He didn't blame her. But then, something changed. What did she see that shifted her perspective so? Ever since that afternoon, he couldn't stop thinking, couldn't stop thinking about her, more specifically. All his thoughts returned to her. Images of her soft, brown tresses, those equally soft eyes, that quirk of a smile tugging at her lips, that coy shyness in her gaze, her smooth, smooth skin, the shape of her figure…

But where did that leave him? Things had changed, hadn't they? Skie had replaced Imoen, and Eddard and Ajantis were only slightly more present than their repeated trips to Candlekeep. Only, that wasn't quite true. Life here was so much better. While his matronly governess wasn't exactly close, she had accepted him, showing him affection in her own, brusque way. The other servants had come to respect him, or at the very least, didn't sneer at him. Now and then, a younger maid dropped an occasional smile, dipping her eyes as she curtsied as he walked by. The guards were never rough around him, but offered gruff 'milords', here and there. A couple offered pointers when he did practice his swordsmanship, and several sparred with him, referring to him as the 'young master'. It wasn't the play practice that older guards indulged young children with, but the challenge of equals. It never occurred to him until now how steadily his skills increased, how he often disarmed those he once lost to. It was so routine now he rarely broke a sweat. Even Duke Entar couldn't keep up, though it was rare he found the time to spar. Now that he thought on it, he walked upright, modelling himself on the Duke's mannerisms, remained standing in the dining room until the Duke sat, and spoke in a similar voice to the maids and footmen. As far as he was aware, like the Duke, he never raised his voice. He simply expected to be obeyed, just as the Duke did, just as he had learned from him.

Eddard was jovial, his eyes dancing with his sense of humour, and Entar's eyes creased, but he, Charnarion, never laughed. He watched, observed, and understood how the niceties of high society worked, but he never engaged. Now, on the eve of his wedding day celebration, he couldn't sleep, and tomorrow, he would have to speak with all those he stayed silent from for years.

Without further thought, he pushed back the satin layers and slid from the creasing sheets. Oblivious to the dressing gown hanging from the bedpost peg, he headed for Skie's rooms out and down the hallway. The hallway was plain, without the art that lined so many of the other grand estates, without the great chin-high vases that decked the downstairs halls and stairwells. Like his, her door was plain. A few light raps met with silence; he tried a louder rap. Again, nothing. Rather than give up, he tried the doorknob. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. Wondering how he could reach the balcony, he headed for the roof stairs. Unlike many of the older buildings in the Gate, the Silvershield servants didn't sleep in the rafters, but rather, in a wing of their own, just off the main house. Likewise, the guards were barracked in a similar wing. Of course, there were nightly patrols and guards always on duty, but Duke Entar didn't expect his household staff to keep such hours. Flying in the face of his contemporaries, he permitted his servants to clean during the day, while he was in residence, provided they did not disturb him. It might have been one reason why he was so beloved, Charnarion reflected, as he peered down the stairwell leading to the lower floors. Crossing the divide as softly as he could, and continuing in a similar vein, he gingerly eased open the roof stair door. To his immediately retracted surprise, the door was not locked. With that, he ascended.

He instantly understood why there was no response to Skie's door. Mutely, he appreciated her. Side on, her back slightly angled towards him, she didn't seem aware of his presence. The moon lit her nightgown and unbound locks, tracing her in a way that stole his breath. Heart pounding more than he believed possible, so loud she must surely hear it, though, he could not work out why, he breathlessly made his way beside her and sat down. Without so much as glancing, Skie simply laid her head on his shoulder, her hand finding his. Her warmth was more welcome than he could describe, the firmness of her body, the softness of her skin. Just sitting. That block of feeling rose up again, indescribable, and then, she pressed her ear to his chest, listening to his heart. He could no longer breathe. Somehow, he didn't pass out. Somehow, as she raised her head, their lips joined. He hadn't moved, had he? Then her fingers were in his hair, curling, tugging, gripping, her mouth moist, warm, hot, pressing, wet; and fire surged through him. Fire like he'd never felt. Fire greater even than when he took the form of the wolf and slew Gorion's killer, covering the traces of his design. This feeling – this surge was unlike anything he ever experienced before, his whole body seizing, panting, gasping.

When Skie finally broke away, her eyes danced, her lips tugging coyly, her hand flat against his chest, tracing it, ghosting down. Charnarion's eyes bulged, his swallow audible. Skie's smile only deepened, all trace of her hesitation evaporating. It seemed, a small, distant part of him noted, his betrothed had made up her mind. He knew instinctively he would never forget that night. She never would either, if he understood her look as she mounted his lap, one leg swinging over his as her nightgown caught and rode. Her hands on his chest, she pushed, her eyes as commanding as her father's.

As a cloud drifted lazily across the moon, he didn't resist as she reached for his nightgown's ties but found he could only stare when she lifted hers to her neck. As he gawked, he realised just how wrong he'd been. Skie might have been slower to fill out than some girls her age, but she had filled out. Breathless, he kissed her curves, burying his face in this newfound delight. Skie's soft sigh became a moan, and her gown fell back around her, her fingers lifting his chin to where their lips could meet. While she plastered kisses along the flesh of his neck, she breathed that since they had waited this long they could manage another night. He wasn't sure he agreed, earning him a soft peal of laughter in his ear. Finding his fingers, she directed him, then repaid him in kind. He didn't ask where she'd learnt all this, and didn't care. As they both lay panting, a bashfulness settled over her. When asked if he liked it, his emphatic, wide-eyed nod left her stifling a giggle. He kissed her.

It was her turn to gape, then the corner of her lips rose, her hand guiding his. Lifting her gown, he marvelled at her, intensely studying her from her collarbone downwards. Skie stifled another giggle, her titter almost musical. Leaning in, she breathed that he was acting as if he'd never seen a woman before. When their eyes met, hers blinked, considered, as if working something out, lit with realisation, confirmation, then filled with understanding, sympathy, amusement, and a kind of predatory hunger, a possession. There was an almost savage victory present, and her whole body shifted, rising over his, tightening. Whatever it meant, she let him, encouraged him, to explore, but only with kisses, stares, and fingers. The rest would have to wait, she kissed him, nibbling at his left lobe. Maybe, she promised-teased, she would read some of the books she favoured to him, books her father and brother didn't know she had, the sort of books that would bring colour to his cheeks, just as he blushed now. With a final sound kiss, which took the form of five parts, starting with the cheeks, temple, lips, mouth, lips, and ending on the side of his head, she broke away, winked, and smoothed her gown. Then, hips swaying, she sauntered towards the roof door, cast a glance across her shoulder, blew a kiss, and descended.

What had happened to the girl he thought he knew as Skie, and who had replaced her? Not that he was complaining, Charnarion amended. The pounding blood in his head sounded remarkably like wedding bells, and for the first time, the prospect didn't faze him; in point of fact, it _delighted_ him. He could scarcely wait for tomorrow night. His throbbing, aching, complaining body agreed, protesting her departure even more than his mind. Almost of its own accord, his hand flexed, travelling as it recalled what hers had taught. He never could have imagined exploring his own body or hers, never imagined the sensations. Frustration grew as he failed to replicate her touch, her warmth, and feeling cheated, somehow, he left the roof.

Outside her door, he hovered, hesitating, then rapped lightly. A moment later, the door opened, and Skie studied him, then a slow beam split her face. His bafflement, disappointment or whatever it was that painted his face, not even thinking to still his features, saw her coyness return. Pulling him inside, she softly closed the door, drew him forth, carefully sank to her knees and lifted his gown. He didn't need to be told twice to cover his mouth, and he gripped as he'd never gripped before. When she was done, Skie leaned back, looked up and grinned. It was an Imoen grin, part of him registered, and in that instant, he wondered exactly what those two discussed all these years. Boys, the realisation struck him; they had discussed _boys_. That's how Skie knew, or at least, partially. Romances were the only books to ever interest Imoen, and from what Skie just said up on the roof… suddenly, it didn't matter.

As she wiped her mouth on the hem of his gown, Skie merely smiled, adopting an angelic innocence. She didn't need to ask how that was; his murmur of 'amazing' was more breathless than anything he'd experienced on that roof. When, how, had she become so bold? What happened to the girl who stubbed her toe and cried, or complained about a blister walking the estate grounds? Where was the girl who stuffed her mouth full of fruit tarts? 'Better?' her eyes seemed to twinkle, before shooing him off towards his bed. Outside in the hall, he couldn't think straight, see straight. Somehow, he made it back to his room, collapsing into the sighing bedsheets. Sleep eluded him, and he tossed and turned. It appeared sleep was equally elusive, as it wasn't long before Skie snuck into his bedchamber. He didn't even hear the door open, only saw her silhouette, her finger held vertically across her lips, a knowing smile in her eyes. Despite her earlier words, it seemed she couldn't wait either, but whenever he got too close, she twisted and writhed away, tapping his hand lightly, hushing herself, and then teasing and tugging again.

He didn't quite know how long they lay together, sometimes still, sometimes not, sometimes in mute admiration, awed wonder, and sometimes with little gasps, stifled pants. A bell before the sun, before the servants were roused, Skie winked, kissed him lightly, slipped on her nightgown, kissed him again, this time more firmly, and half skipped, half glided to the door. It was as though she were walking on clouds, he sank back, lightheaded. Somehow, he had the presence of mind to tug on his own gown, lest the morning maid wake him and find him without. Something in the recesses of his consciousness commented that it was doubtful the sight of a male body would faze her. While she might not be a mother yet, it was unlikely she was a stranger to the male form, certainly not to his, but, the same part noted, she might notice how unusual it was for _him_ to sleep without a gown, and the night had been relatively cool for Myrtle. Perhaps it was best to avoid any unnecessary implications. The more pressing problem was how he was possibly going to make it through the day. His entire being ached to be with Skie, he longed with a yearning he had never experienced before. Every second he spent with her left him hungry for more. That roof hadn't been enough; what she did in her room wasn't enough, and lying beside her here in his bed had only fuelled, not sated, his need for her. Why had he never seen her before? Had he ever really looked? How could he be so blind? Now, all he could see was her, all he could think of was her. She had lit a fire from a single spark, a fire that blazed into a bonfire, now raged as an inferno. Nothing he knew could dampen it, nothing could stop this hunger, this _need_.

As he lay on his back, he felt the phantom press of her lips smoothing his hair, and at that moment, he wondered for the first time, what it was that Skie wanted for her wedding day. Had she selected the dress, had she had any say at all? Until yesterday, surely she would have held no excitement at the prospect. Yet, somehow, everything changed. It _had_ changed, for them both. There was a lightness to her step, a spring. He found himself smiling. Clichés he'd heard and dismissed sprang to mind, and he didn't even care. Whatever she wanted, he wanted her to have it. But, he recognised, as he slowly watched the first light of the clouded sun streaked up and over the horizon, today was beginning like any other. What an end it would have, he thought, grabbing the pillow and hugging it to himself. For the first time, he really was truly happy. Happy didn't cover it. Giddy, gleeful, exuberant. For the first time, he felt _free_.


	7. 7: Ducal Palace

7\. Ducal Palace

The morning blurred by. The morning maid appeared, only to find him already awake but still gazing out the window, stepped out, reappeared with a breakfast tray, of which, he barely tasted. Only the scent and taste of kaeth filled him with newfound joy, a reminder of the drink they both loved and shared. He didn't log his governess' stern look, nor her headshake, as she jerked her head towards the morning maid and headed towards Skie's rooms. Nor did he register the maid bustling him into the copper tub, only to find himself without his gown and being slopped with warm, soapy water. She seemed to shake her head curtly to herself as her rough-skinned palms sponged him, scrubbed him, and none-too-gently rubbed oils into his hair and flesh. When he did come to, he did so with a splutter, his dreamy gaze shattered. Sternly, she scolded him to stop 'gaping like a fish', planted her fists on her hips and leaned close to his face. Reading him a lecture as though he were a boy of six, the maid, who could not have been older than her late twenties, told him that duke's son or no, marriage day or no, he needed to snap out of his daydream and focus. When he stared blankly at her, she reached down and gave him a sharp, resounding slap across the thigh. _That_ got his attention, and sheepishly, he found himself cooperating, despite her disregard of protocol.

Realising that it was the first time anyone here had struck him made him stop and with that, a second realisation occurred. She had been with him since he first arrived in the Silvershield estate, that each morning, she woke and dressed him, changed and made his bed, took care of him when he was ill and for the first few years, checked in on him each night, being present as he changed into his nightgown even if she wasn't watching, tears formed in his eyes. Despite himself, and forgetting he was soaking wet, he stood and enfolded her, pressing his face to her shoulder. Bewilderment seemed to grip her, and awkwardly, she patted his shoulder, then, her arms slid around his waist, and she shushed him, laying a gentle kiss on his hair. With a slight sniffle, he held out his arms and allowed her to dry him, stepped outside and found himself led to the bed, where she had already laid out his clothes for the day. Charnarion stopped and stared. There were some pieces there he simply had no clue about, and while he recognised at least half, the other half were as alien to him as a woman's stays and corset. Without comment, the morning maid brusquely finished her duties, tying his cravat and smoothing his hair as the final touch.

He didn't feel like he could move. The sword belt at his side felt more ceremonial than functional, but the blade itself was real enough. Its familiar presence gave him pause, and confidence. He might not understand the stockings straps, or the under-hose hose, but at least he understood the sword. His green velvet puff sleeves with their slits and white undershirt might not allow him to actually fence, but as the morning maid proved, taking him in hand, he was able to dance. The practice lasted longer than he expected, allowing him ample time to zone out, but her chuckling brought him back each time. As he flexed his long, white leather gloves, he idly wondered how Skie was faring, and wondered if she had as many pieces to put on as he did. Perhaps she had even more. How was he going to get those off? At least Skie knew her way around clothing, at least, he hoped she did, so _surely_ she would know, or at any rate, help.

Part of him wondered quite why he was dancing with the morning maid, or indeed, how she knew how to dance, but as her black bun caught a sliver of harsh sunlight through the broken clouds, it dawned on him that Duke Entar and their governess would leave nothing to chance. As he spun her around for the last part, he found her breathless pant a little odd. Not quite off-putting, certainly not alarming, just… unexpected. Her cheeks were slightly flushed too. Squinting at her, Charnarion wisely declined from comment, but brought his heels together and finished the dance with a slight bow. There, that should satisfy her, his governess, and Entar. The small cloak rustled against his back and upper left arm. He felt ridiculous dressed like this. The chain of silver-set emeralds that ran shoulder to shoulder was not to his tastes, any more than those pointy-shoed buckled ankle-boots were. The white stockings were clearly meant to emphasise his calves, but why did he feel so self-conscious? To top it off, there was a flat, flopping hat with a feather stuck in. The clothes were the finest he'd ever wore, which, he supposed was fitting, as he was getting married, but the whole thing felt too much like an ordeal.

He realised he was being scolded again, this time, more crossly than before. From the way she twitched, he wondered if he needed to be wary of her hand again. She caught his eye and fixed him a look. Two days ago, he wouldn't have sighed. Something in him knew better than to, so he merely smiled, which earnt him an incredulous look, and another headshake. Without pause, she led him from the room, escorted him down the stairwell, and to Duke Entar's study. The whole time, she took him by the arm, firmly, though respectfully. Entar had little to say, but what he did say, Charnarion would never forget. With those words still ringing in his ears, as he stood before his adoptive father, his throat seized. The acceptance Entar first offered was fully realised. Charnarion had joined their family as a boy; now he was a man, a second son of whom Entar was proud to call his own. That he knew Charnarion would take care of his daughter, that there was no need to tell him. More than that, the Duke understood Skie was in safe hands, and were he to die this day, he could rest easy, and now, he relinquished her into Charnarion's responsibility, a shared responsibility both he, Entar, and Charnarion would share until one or both of them ceased to be.

All he could manage was a nod, and a choked 'Yes, sir.'. The Duke returned the nod firmly, clasped hands, and then indicated the door with a stern bob his forehead. As he made his way woodenly outside, Charnarion cast a backwards glance, realising how hard it must be, that Skie's mother was not there to share this day. His heart went out to the man, who, for all his finery, pedigree and prestige, was as human as anyone else. He caught Entar's eye, understanding in his own. It wasn't just Charnarion's throat that tightened, but the duke steadied himself, and held his eye. Then, Charnarion turned back, and finding the morning maid waiting for him, arm at the ready, found himself led outside and to the carriage. Along the way, the household staff lined the hall, each smiling, bobbing their heads and curtsies, while the footmen, resplendent in silver livery, stood tall and proud. Beneath the broken sunlight, the guards formed up magnificently around the three carriages, though the presence of a third carriage struck Charnarion was a little strange: surely Entar would ride with his daughter? It didn't matter; the Ducal Palace awaited, as did the rest of the day, and the night that surely followed.

His carriage didn't wait for the others, nor did it travel in procession with any others along the route. Instead, it sped by, escorted by the Silvershield guardsmen, their silver surcoats blazing against their smooth plate armour. The clear call of trumpets announced him, and the palace guards, draped in red, with heavy halberds, allowed the carriage to pass beneath the portcullis.

As Charnarion had noted all those years ago, the Ducal Palace was not that different to Candlekeep in so far that it, like the fortress library was a castle keep with a curtain wall. Draped with the city's pendant, the exterior struck out, bold and towering. Its inner gardens were heavenly, their trees no longer in bloom, but their bases studded with flowers. Fresh garlands had been laid, and the walkway was lined with guards in red livery, some with trumpets, others horns, and some with halberds. The interior could not have been more different than Candlekeep, however. It truly was a palace, magnificent in splendour, daunting in grandeur. It put to shame all but the Iron Throne's vast towering megalith and took away Charnarion's breath. To be wed, in such a place as this, to the woman he realised he loved more than life itself? In the presence of his adoptive father, his father's peers, and the other noble families? He would have settled for a tree by the ocean, but he never could have dreamt of such a hall. Never before had he cause to visit the Ducal Palace, and while Eddard had many, many times, Charnarion had never quite believed his adoptive brother's tales. Speaking of which, surely Eddard would be here for his sister's wedding. Charnarion scanned the hall, its great columns and arches. If Eddard was there, he certainly couldn't find him.

Inwardly, he shrugged. Perhaps the third carriage was meant for Eddard. That would make sense. As he glanced around the hall, he realised just how empty it was. Before he could consider this further, he found himself ushered into an antechamber off the main hall. As the door closed behind him, Entar's guardsman outside, Charnarion found himself alone and with little to do but wait.

He didn't have to wait long.

The rest of the day passed by in a blur. Milling clusters of gowned women, men dressed in their finery, in a variety of styles, passed by and greeted him. Some faces he knew, others he did not. A few belonged to the ambassadors of the Lords' Alliance, from Waterdeep, Neverwinter. Others. Members of the Merchant's League. He recognised Reiltar's glacial gaze, as if the man were assessing him for the first time. The Third Grand Duke to be extended a clasping hand, seemed to consider speaking, chose not to, then, as if by way of passing, leaned down and murmured something cryptic, something about an alliance between their two families, as if somehow, Charnarion would make a fine addition? What could Reiltar have meant? Before he had a chance to ask, the lean man had edged back into the crowd, his sharp, clean-shaven face unsmiling, even as his thin lips rose in response to some quip. Those eyes never warmed.

Did Reiltar mean Eddard? Could there be a daughter of his somewhere that Reiltar intended? Unless it was some kind of warning? But that seemed downright odd. Then he found himself dwarfed by a towering figure. From broad shoulders, a trunk of neck supported a huge, round head, free of hair. Deep set, golden eyes blazed like miniature suns. Clad completely in iron grey and black, the split hose and puff sleeves looked even more absurd on the giant of a man than it did on Charnarion himself. Lounging off one of those massively muscled arms, an hour-glass in the shape of a woman hung, both her arms around his.

In shimmering green, Cythandria met his gaze and her own green seemed to shift, their bored, cool expression considering. Her flawless porcelain face put dolls to shame, and her neck would draw envy from swans, her golden tresses enough to make the sun blush. Releasing her lover, who seemed to Charnarion that he would break her if he so much as sneezed, let alone rode her, she inched closer on what appeared to be her tiptoes. Even when she lowered herself, the multi-layered gown exhaling with her, Charnarion's eyeline was still between her chin and lower lip. Rather than be turned into an object of gossip, Charnarion chose to take the initiative and greeted her warmly, by name. 'Hello Cythandria'. For all the world, he made himself look like her younger brother, pecking her cheek as chastely as he could manage.

A low rumble of 'Heh' resounded, in spite of Sarevok's low tone. Cythandria blinked, then returned the peck as if her momentarily lapse had never happened. Complimenting Charnarion on how much he'd grown, Cythandria patted his cheek, her long white gloved hand overly familiar, but not quite contemptuous. If it was a show, it was one for her lover. Rather than break the discourse, Charnarion replied with 'You're looking well', only to dare venture that her earrings were quite becoming. Suddenly unsure of how to respond, she risked a glance at Sarevok, then returned coolly that it was a pity they did not see him more often; marriage had clearly opened his mouth. Another 'heh' from Sarevok, and then, as if she abruptly realised what she'd said, her eyes darted to one side. So did Charnarion's, and unable to keep from slowly colouring, he simply took Cythandria's hands in his and brought his face down. As his lips brushed her knuckles, he murmured 'my lady', and Sarevok's bark of a laugh was harsh, dry, and deeply amused. To Charnarion, it felt as though there was something else at play, something he was unaware of and Sarevok was most pointedly mindful to.

Cythandria glanced away, her jaw tight and her outstretched hand almost shaking. Catching her eye, Charnarion understood little, beyond a sensation that she was about to slap him across the face. Her resentment didn't even seem to be towards him, but he innately knew he was an easy target. Before her self-control could be tested any further, Sarevok roughly gripped her arm, then, in his low, deep, soft voice, sardonically intoned 'Enjoy your day'. Following up, Cythandria added with silk-veiled harshness, Charnarion should visit them at the Iron Throne, now he had made his debut into society. Then the couple turned, making their way towards Reiltar.

At some point during the day, before the banqueting and music began, he and Skie declared their vows, and pledged their allegiance to the Gate. The last was not strictly necessary, but in such troubled times, it seemed appropriate. It seemed to garner respect, polite applause from within, and thunderous cheering from those outside, the whole ceremony showcased by a number of mage towers. With that, the street parties began. Throughout the exchange, his eyes were lost in Skie's, drowning in their subtle, soft, endless hues. Layers upon layers of brown, of shades he could not even begin to name, drinking them in so deep, he no longer was aware of himself. Their hands joined, fingers laced, their long gloves, hers longer, seemed an impossible, infuriating barrier. In sky blue across layers of satin white, her gown folded perfectly around her, draping in all the right places, the bodice at just the right height, the curves both modest and flattering, her chic layers as elegant as Cythandria's if not more so. Trimmed with pearls and cut with silver, the patterned silk was sublime as it was wispy. Were it not for the multitude of underlayers, he would see right through it. Sapphires, clear blue and opaque grey, faceted and in ovals, respectively, of varying sizes, studded her garment strategically, augmenting her coronet, earrings and necklace. On her hand, she wore the signet of the Silvershields, the same signet that graced his. She didn't need enchantments to be enchanting, didn't need anything. Skie was as lovely inside her dress as out of it, and in that moment, in all moments, for Charnarion, Skie was perfection personified. Nothing, not even a Solar, could outshine her radiance.

He never felt Sarevok's grunt, as those darkly golden eyes tinged with disgust at the tedium. He never felt the heart-wrenching envy from Cythandria's green gaze, or the cold, hard stare from Reiltar that fell upon them both. He didn't notice any of the other pairs of eyes, or even Entar's proud, regal bearing as the duke stood radiant with pride and bursting with paternal joy. Nor did he take note of Eddard and Ajantis' absence. In that moment, Skie was all that existed. Her and no other.

During the meal, they gazed out at the musicians, the mistrals and jugglers, the entertainers, fire-eaters, acrobats, others, at the tables laden with fine foods, wines, and surrounded by the elite of society. Amidst all the politicking, gossip, scandal, and sometimes literally under-the-table deals, they rose above it, oblivious to all but the joy of their day. As noon turned to dusk, the street parties raged on without sign of end, and as the curtain of dusk gave way to darkness, throughout the night, the streets were filled with dancing, drinking, singing and feasting. After such hardship, the denizens of the Gate celebrated as they had not done in a hundred years, and the bards promised that a hundred years from now, they would still sing of this day.

For Charnarion, none of that mattered. Unable to slip away, the carriage that carried them home came far too late. By the time most of the nobles had disbanded, the moon was almost at its apex, and Skie was asleep on his shoulder. The carriage rocked, rarely jolting, the gnomish suspension revolutionising the once-bumpy ride. As he gazed down into her mottled brown locks, his own the hue of sun-seared wheat, his lips pressed to her, holding for many long moments before releasing. The day had been perfect, and while their night would not take the form he longed for, it no longer mattered. Skie was happy, happier than even last night, or perhaps, a different sort of happy. With that knowledge, he was content. Lifting his eyes away, he stared back at his reflection, which in turn, matched him stare for stare. Outside, the thick halo of the gnomish gas lamps, brushed by the moon left a ghostly residue. Against this light, everything held a greenish glaze, leaving him alone with his thoughts.


	8. 8: Reminiscence

8\. Reminiscence

The carriage grew into the grounds without fanfare, though, as that morning, the servants and those guardsmen who weren't on the estate wall, lined up in welcome. With a clipped nod, he acknowledged them as he slipped from the carriage, turned, and scooped his slumbering bride up. Mild surprise coloured him; had she always been this light? As the grand double doors opened for him, he carried her to the chamber prepared for them, their now-former governess leading the way, the morning maid a step behind her. No one spoke. As the two women left him at the door, he deposited Skie on the satin sheets, noting that white petals were strewn upon the bed and the floor. Vases of white lilies and snow orchids decked the bridal chamber, and the bed's long drapes were pure and clean. The end tables and bureaus, and small, round breakfast table set near the balcony were also perfection, pieces he'd not seen before. A part of him noted it was just as likely they were taken from other parts of the estate and he never noticed until that moment.

Leaving her in her dress, his step as soft as he could make it, he departed the chamber, pausing at the door long enough to give the two women the soft command to tend to her. Catching himself, he amended, he thought she'd be more comfortable in a nightgown. A tinge of a smile formed from the matron, and from within, heat welled in his gut. Ignoring the pricking bloating that only self-consciousness brought on, he held their eyes until the morning maid dipped a short curtsey. She, too, concealed her dancing eyes. Even so, there was a shift since that morning; something had changed, but what? Suddenly leaden, his feet protested, as did his calves, but aching, straining muscles was nothing new to him. With no particular destination set in mind, he found himself drawn to Entar's study.

The duke was waiting there for him, a cut crystal decanter sitting open on the hardwood desk. The study was exactly as one might imagine, Charnarion observed, as if truly viewing it for the first time. There were shelves, bureaus, a long desk, drapes, and windows set behind the desk. The hammerbeam ceiling was high, somehow light against the varied dark woods of the room and its panelled walls. A distinctive woody scent emanated from the chamber, but it held none of the musty stuffiness Candlekeep had. Without invitation, Charnarion slid into the chair prepared for him, twin to the one Entar rested in now, set at the side of the desk. Unconsciously imitating the duke, Charnarion's own arms slipped along the curved limbs, one leg cocked across the other. His glass was already full. Entar hadn't nursed his at all, but let it sit. The duke couldn't have been home long, and Charnarion's sidelong glance soon fell short, returning to the amber-orange liquor. Entar seemed to stare through the wall map, a map set on the back wall beside the door. Beneath it were several nautical instruments, possibly gnomish, sealed in a glass counter. Charnarion never noted the glass before; as far as he recalled, it was always covered in green velvet.

As the silence stretched, he risked another glimpse of the aging man. The sides of Entar's head were streaked with white, some grey, his weathered face handsome in its own way. The tiredness that hung so heavy in his face, around his eyes, had not ebbed with the day's celebrations and a surge of anxiety hit Charnarion, the pit of his stomach seizing, as if, for the first time, he understood one day he would lose the man who had become his father. It wasn't some abstract 'oh one day he'll die', but the very real realisation that it could happen, would happen, and this pillar of stability, this indomitable source of strength and moral standing, this man whom he so ascribed to become like, to meet and live his high standards, would perish, wither, and fade. It would not be as simple as a personal loss, but a loss that would affect the whole city, a man who held back the evil machinations of others, who constantly championed the common good, ensuring fair and just rule, purporting prosperity for all, not just the landed few. This man was more than a father to him, he was a father to the city, and once he was gone, those like Reiltar would swoop in, wrest power and use it to crush others underfoot to see their bidding done. That wasn't just speculation, or idle paranoia, for the Black Talon were Reiltar's will exemplified. While Entar did not control the Flaming Fist directly, he was respected by them, and held them in check. The Talons ran roughshod over the city, barracked in the headquarters of the Iron Throne, that towering complex that soared above even the Ducal Palace.

Charnarion's hand didn't move towards his drink, but in its refracted, shadowy reflection, he knew deep in his heart that Entar had no one to succeed him, no one to fill his boots. Eddard was too naïve, too busy playing at being a paladin of some knightly order; Skie was too young, and he, Charnarion, well, he certainly was not ready. Reiltar, by contrast, had raised Sarevok to be a formidable force in his own right. Not just a towering physical presence, but a tried and true warrior, if the footmen's gossip was correct. While he didn't engage in duals, there were garbled reports of Sarevok training with the Talons, sometimes as many as ten to one. The whispers breathed that the Talons were so terrified of sparring with him they redoubled their efforts to assert their employer's will, lest they answer with their lives. Those same whispers also claimed an almost bestial ferocity came over Sarevok, that those few who had made it out of his halls on the upper levels of the Iron Throne's tower were in the infirmary for weeks, that the healing vials were withheld from them. Crushed ribs and torn muscles were the order of the day, and this fear drove the Talons to new and terrible lengths.

His eyes snapped back to Entar's. The duke swirled his glass in his scarred hand. Finally, Charnarion asked the question that haunted him for years. One of the questions. "You knew Gorion." Phrased as less of a question and more of a statement, he nevertheless pressed, his quiet insistence not quite a demand, despite its note of agitation.

Entar sighed, released the glass, and asked simply, "What do you know of Anchorome?"

At that, Charnarion shook his head, and relayed simply that he knew it was a 'place on the map' and indicated the landmass. Due north of Maztica, west across the Trackless Sea. Entar confided that some years ago, in 1361 DR he sent an expedition to find the fabled founder of Baldur's Gate, the dwarf Baldur himself. "It was after the Golden Legion's discovery of Maztica," Entar explained, his gaze distant, as if he himself were no longer fully present in the now. Twenty ships, led by the Flaming Fist, the flotilla swiftly put together. Beset by plagues, storms, and attacked by sahuagin from the deep, the expedition headed north, and established 'Fort Flame'. Only a handful of those who set out returned, the Duke confessed, and those that did brought back a horror stricken from the history books. A fever that started out as an innocuous rash and struck down the lives of many.

Charnarion couldn't help but wonder what any of this had to do with Gorion, but the last few years had cultivated some patience within him. That fever claimed the duke's wife, Brilla, mother of Eddard and Skie, Entar relayed, sweeping his hand through his hair. Charnarion couldn't bring himself to view the man's brimming eyes, though they never spilled over. Skie, at the time, was young, as too, was Charnarion himself, Entar inclined his head, and the mages of the city were at a loss. The fever was on the verge of becoming a pandemic. While the clerics held the infected at bay, Entar journeyed to Candlekeep in the hopes of uncovering something to help combat the menace. Sealing the docks proved useless, the fever spreading to all districts. First the young fell ill, then the old, then the healthy. Then, overnight, it simply ceased, burning itself out. The death toll was hundreds, mostly the elderly, but a few of the healthy, including Brilla, swollen with child. Entar refused to go into graphic detail, sharing only that those afflicted sweated and scratched furiously, having to be physically restrained, else they drank and drank, thirsting until the water killed them.

Gorion was one of those who answered Entar's call for aid, helping to scour the library, night after night, consoling the grieving, guilt-stricken duke. Entar explained that while he had visited Candlekeep many times in the past, that time cemented their friendship. At this, Charnarion nodded, then Entar barked a harsh, short laugh, cold fury in his eyes. Abruptly taken aback, Charnarion felt his back press to the chair, moulding against it. In his whitening hand, Entar choked the glass, but the cut crystal didn't shatter. "Gorion," Entar spat, "how did I know Gorion? That womanising, black lotus imbibing drunk?"

Many years earlier, Gorion frequented the Undercellar, Entar elaborated as soon as he had gotten a hold of himself. During those little forays, the sage caroused and made many 'friends', his charm misleading many, including a younger Brilla. At the time, Entar himself was courting Brilla, but the world, fresh and exciting, was not something she wanted to pass by, and her wild spirit could not be tempered. She and her friends were seduced by the Undercellar's allure, by the city's underside. As the daughters of powerful families, scandals were devastating, but privacy was the Undercellar's most prized commodity. As Brilla's friends dabbled with the less respectable, exploring the various merchandise on offer, Brilla herself found herself falling in with another young woman, a woman of golden hair, porcelain skin and emerald eyes. At this juncture, Entar looked pointedly at Charnarion. Lifting the glass to his lips without drinking, Entar set it down again, stared into its liquid, drew a breath, and continued. The two became inseparable, and Gorion pursued them both. While Brilla had enough sense to know the boundaries of what was permissible, if only to avoid bringing utter ruination to her family name, Aliana was approached by another young man, one whom Brilla later described as having an intense, dark stare. He was handsome, mysterious, and knew things. Things a man should not possibly know, ancient things. Like her much later born daughter, Brilla was fascinated by tales of other times, of forbidden lore.

Aliana's appetite was much greater, almost yearning, as though she were searching for something more. Gorion's relentless pursuit won him his dalliance, though his truer nature soon manifested. Ego-driven and self-centred, Aliana soon tired of him. Brilla, who had found herself in her friend's shadow had never quite been at ease with the hunger in Gorion's gaze, the way his lip curled when he thought no one else was looking. Aliana either didn't see it, or didn't heed Brilla's concerns, or perhaps, Entar wondered, she felt by giving Gorion what he sought, he would lose interest. Brilla's diary never confirmed her musing. At this, Entar leant back in his chair, the joints creaking slightly. Reaching down, he pulled open a drawer and set a weathered tome no larger than Charnarion's hand beside the decanter. Licking his forefinger, the Duke leaf through it, and read from its entries.

As Charnarion listened, he found himself wondering how different life must have been then. While Aliana allowed Gorion to fawn over her, presenting her with gifts and sweet words, she and Brilla were drawn further in by the other man's words. Entar confessed that although he had spent a significant sum searching for this man, all his efforts uncovered were a partial name: Winski. The duke admitted that the name might not even be real, an alias. The diary revealed that Aliana concocted a design to remove Gorion from hounding her, that she found him so tiresome she regretted ever entertaining the notion of sharing so much as a waterpipe with him. It was then Brilla had the inspired suggestion of having Gorion prove his worth, rather than his love, and the challenge was phrased in a way that his ego could not refuse. It involved a journey to Windspear Hills, located deep in Amnish territory, to retrieve a treasure based on one of Winski's tales.

Charnarion made a face. How often Gorion bragged about besting a red wyrm in the Amnish hills. It was his and Firebead's favourite tale.

Now, Entar stopped, and held Charnarion's gaze. Charnarion didn't flinch. How long had he waited to hear this? Slowly, Entar inclined his head but a fraction. What none of them knew, the Duke revealed through the diary's later entries, was how Aliana was with child. Once discovered, she had no intention of keeping it, but Winski dissuaded her. Entar himself had no notion of Winski at this point, and found his efforts at wooing Brilla frustrated, but thought little of it, focusing instead on finance and shipping, the family business. Her family assured him she would come round in time, that their betrothal was all but sealed. What reason did he have to doubt them? Brilla was young, smart, and apparently shy. Love took many forms, sometimes at first sight and sometimes slowly growing. He was respectable, and they liked each other well enough, so why would he suspect she harboured a dark, double life? But trust, Entar advised Charnarion, could be blinding.

The entries became sparser, but Winski inducted them into his clandestine group, a small number of scholars who sought arcane mysteries and ancient lore. Forbidden, buried, or simply forgotten, it did not matter. For Brilla, it was everything she and Aliana hoped for. On the surface, it seemed little more than a club, and for three years, they met regularly, studying lost languages, instructed by Winski who somehow knew far more than anyone they had ever met. He was patient with them, but hard, and strove for perfection. He also took Aliana's babe, a little girl, and raised her alongside them, teaching her the secrets from birth.

Entar confessed that while he had never met Aliana, Brilla's diary made mention of a locket, which supposedly held a portrait of her and Aliana, but he had never found it. His best guess was it was destroyed, or somehow was given to the child, perhaps by Winski, but he was getting ahead of himself.

Sometime during that first year, Entar went on to wed Brilla, and she conceived their first child. While he focused on the affairs of home and state, Brilla hosted socialite gatherings but continued to spend time with Aliana outside of their secretive 'club', but always under the tutelage of Winski. Then, after three years, something changed. The diary offered little explanation, other than Winski chose to leave, taking Aliana with him. A single cryptic line suggested that Winski imparted something, warning or commanding her to wait, that something of tremendous import would occur. Whatever that secret was, it was so big that Brilla tore out the next two pages and never referenced it again.

No further mention was made to them, or Aliana's daughter, but Gorion returned from his travels, and once again, sniffed around. The diary announced Brilla drove him from the Silvershield Estate, but not for long. Apparently recanting his actions, Gorion vowed to make restitution for his earlier behaviour. While sceptical, Brilla could do little as the sage struck up new friendships and resumed old ones. The diary never specifically mentioned Gorion threatening her, reading between the lines, and looking back, Entar suspected he somehow discovered her association with Winski, but whatever the two said wasn't recorded. Entar only knew that Brilla never publicly denounced Gorion, and he capitalised on his newfound fame, as exploits of how he bested a crimson drake spread throughout the city. Within a few months, it became old news, but from his connections, somehow, Gorion invested heavily and his influence and coin increased.

After Eddard was born, Brilla apparently became more settled. If she corresponded with Aliana after their parting, the diary made no mention of it. Her old haunts forgotten, Brilla thrust herself into the role of lady wife, renovating the Silvershield estate and schooling Eddard. Eddard smiled, his expression bittersweet, as he recalled those days. Too busy with the Merchant League and his newfound status as Grand Duke, Brilla took over managing the estate and handled the finances and investments, including the shipping. Under her steady hand, their fortunes increased, quadrupling over the course of a few years. Before long, the Silvershields were the wealthiest family within Baldur's Gate.

Then, in 1358 DR, the Time of Troubles struck. Charnarion nodded at this. A time when gods walked in mortal form and slew each other, when clerics were hapless away from their patron and the whole foundations of the realms seemed to be in question. Though only a decade ago, the uncertainty must have been terrifying. Candlekeep was sheltered, isolated from the troubles, and somehow, he grew up in blissful unawareness of the cataclysmic events that shaped the world. He could remember who the monks spoke in hushed whispers, their terror and awe at the news of this or that god's demise. But what did that matter to him? What would a child know or care about some distant occurrence, even if that was the death of a god. And if the gods could die, what good was a mere mortal? Later, he understood that many of the gods _had_ been mortals who simply ascended, or in the case of some, stole power. If it was that easy to become a god, and that easy to die, it didn't strike him as entirely reasonable to hold them in such veneration. But that was a view he innately understood should not be shared.

Entar closed the diary with a tenderness that almost belied the coldness of his gaze. Charnarion simply watched, waiting. As the cold faded, the duke regarded his son-in-law, stating that the rest he already knew. Brilla gave birth to Skie, and after the fateful expedition of 1361 DR, the fever took her, but Skie and Eddard, who both became flushed with the thirst, survived. After Brilla's death, he personally went through her effects, discovered the diary and spent a small fortune on decrypting the language. Unable to bring himself to destroy the last record and insight into his beloved wife's mind, he held onto her account of her life, and paid a second small fortune to have the best mages of the Gate ward it.

The line his mouth drew was grim, his eyes lacking any warmth. Gorion, he explained, exploited many, and he himself had fallen prey to the sage's lies. Were it not for Brilla, he never would have known Gorion's true nature, and upon deciphering her diary, he funded an investigation into the man. Gorion was more connected than anyone ever thought, belonging to a meddlesome sect known colloquially as the 'Harpers'. Whether to advance his own agenda, or whether he was only ever their agent wearing a guise, Entar could not say, but it explained, in part, why Gorion was so successful. Gorion's conquests numbered less than Charnarion might expect, Entar admitted, though it were impossible to know for sure. According to the reports, Gorion kept several favourites, visiting them periodically. How many of these belonged to the Harpers as covert operatives remained unknown, but Entar had reason to suspect that Gorion attempted to recruit and indoctrinate those he favoured. Aliana might have chosen to reject his attempts to woo her because she realised his intent to subvert her to a more sinister purpose. Brilla never realised which circles Gorion ran in, or if she did, she never felt it important enough to record. Entar put away the diary, and Charnarion heard the distinctive click of a key in turning in its lock. That sound seemed to mark a turning point, a shift in mood, and he understood innately the Duke needed space.

Rising to his feet, Charnarion raised, then drained the quarter-filled beaker, the smooth liquor warming without burning, and calmly, he set the glass down. Almost without pause, Entar took a draught that left his own empty. Neither man smacked their lips, and the Duke remained seated. With the smallest of nods, Charnarion simply offered, 'Father', and left, the door closing softly behind him, Entar's stare more distant than ever.

Somewhat later as he wandered the empty corridors and halls, it dawned on Charnarion that the discussion with the duke was hardly proper for one's wedding night, but as he viewed the first grey of the new day, he realised that he felt both lighter, and troubled. Answers bred only more questions, but now, at least, he understood a little more of his origin. If anything, he felt a deeper connection to his father-in-law, and the gratitude he held could not be expressed in mere words. His respect for the man had only grown.

It didn't occur to him until later that Entar hadn't seemed surprised that Charnarion wasn't with his new bride. He also noted there was only one glass, not two. What of Eddard? Wondering why he hadn't seen his brother-in-law, Charnarion found himself in the third drawing room, and without further thought, let himself sink into velveteen couch cushions. Sleep didn't appeal, and with so much on his mind, it would not come easily, in spite of the day ahead of them.


	9. 9: The Next Day

9\. The Next Day

The next day was much like the previous, only, Charnarion awoke to a cluster of maids huddled in concern over him. They dispersed without so much as a squawk upon the morning maid's arrival. A series of dark looks set them scurrying, and Charnarion found himself fixed with a long, deep frown. Before he quite understood how, she pressed the back of her hand to his brow, clucked to herself, and was about to give him an earful, or so he suspected, when Skie appeared. Rubbing her eyes, she stifled a yawn, the heavy folds of nightgown alone in covering her from neck to ankle. He caught the morning maid's look of disapproval. It would appear that both he and Skie had a penchant for forgoing slippers and dressing gowns.

He decided it was better not to ask how Skie knew where to find him. Instead, the morning maid took her presence to mean their breakfast order awaited, though, Charnarion noted, that neither Skie nor himself ever got as far as mentioning what they wanted before the morning maid took off at a brisk march, her skirts neatly in line with her step. The open door joined its partner with a soft click.

Skie met his eyes, her own more than a little fragile. Before she could ask, he patted the couch and mentioned, as if in passing, he was speaking with their father. At the use of the word 'their', a beautiful, brilliant smile erupted, her dimpling cheeks suddenly radiant. Reaching down, he brought his lips to hers, their first married kiss chaste, tender. Her arms slid around his neck and somehow, she was in his lap, and though she blinked to find herself there, she didn't protest. Lacing his fingers through her sumptuous locks, he cradled her as though she were the most precious thing in the whole of the realms. To him, she was.

"What did you and Daddy talk about?" Skie ventured, after a natural still had settled. Taking her cheek, he held and kissed her, as an inward war raged. Was this really how he wanted to start their marriage, with such a dark, incomplete tale, or did he want to keep it from her, to shield her, protect her? Or was it to shield himself? No, that moment in the glasshouse happened because he entrusted her, because theirs was a relationship of equals. But was now really the right time? Who knew who might be listening? The morning maid would be back at any moment. If he said nothing, or said 'later', she would feel he was brushing her off. He needed to answer.

Skie spoke his name.

Inhaling deeply, Charnarion took her hands in his, stared deeply into her eyes, and saw himself reflected back. His ripe wheat-hued hair was mused, he looked a mess, but his gaze held a sincerity, a calm he didn't realise he possessed. Warning her it was not an easy tale, perhaps one best saved for later, he nevertheless outlined the key points of the conversation the night before. His words were low, intense, and his eyes never left hers. He spoke about Brilla, the expedition, and when it came to Aliana, his face contorted, but Skie simply replied, 'Oh'. Then her face brightened. "You have a sister!"

Then it struck him that somewhere, out there, he really did. Somehow, in all of the grimness and reflection, he missed it. Pressing her lips together, her head bowing just a notch, Skie added, "Thank you for letting me sleep last night. I understand why you didn't…" Her eyes darted to the side. Lifting her chin, he apologised, and actually meant it. Shaking her head, she replied she understood why he hadn't, then considered for a moment, adding that if she had heard all that, she wouldn't have wanted to sleep either. Then she smiled, and added they still had some time before they had to head out. Desire flared, filling him, but his sense of duty and responsibility kicked in, and he offered a clipped headshake. By the time they shared breakfast, they would need to prepare for the day, but as disappointment gripped both of them, he invited her to walk through the gardens with him. Her face lit.

A moment later, the morning maid arrived with their much-needed kaeth, a tray of sweet pastries, strawberries and more besides. There was something wonderful, so deeply sublime in sharing these simple delights with Skie. To see her smile that way, that glasshouse was priceless. For all its books and untold wealth of knowledge, Charnarion decided that he did not miss Candlekeep at all. None of it compared with feeding his new bride freshly plucked strawberries, hearing her giggle and seeing the sheer joy that filled her face. Against such simple pleasures as these, arcane lore seemed irrelevant.

Outside, the street parties had died down, somewhat, or at least, had taken on a more subdued presence. Which is to say, as Charnarion and Skie's carriage drove by, those not partaking in the all night festivities, having not drunk to excess, namely mothers, some fathers, and their children, were delighting in a brunch, while the majority of the Gate were nursing heavy hangovers. For the newlyweds, their afternoon consisted of formal dancing, avoiding polite chitchat wherever possible, and bracing themselves for the banquet that followed.

Representatives of the powers that be and everyone who was someone made themselves known, as the evening mirrored and picked up where yesterday's left off. It was clear to most present that the banquet had nothing to do with the wedding, and was merely an excuse for power brokering, and anything less would be in poor form. So, as the various mages of high ability with a penchant for politics graced the Ducal Palace, making conversation with those from the Merchant League, of whom a remarkable number hailed from the Iron Throne, and only a handful from the Seven Suns trading company, Charnarion avoided those attempting to make eye contact. This included one Jhasso, a director of the Seven Suns, who seemed fairly reasonable but hinted at an investment opportunity, and another less savoury fellow who insisted on talking about his hunting exploits in Cloakwood. Charnarion didn't need Skie's hand on his forearm to know to decline the invitation. Wyvern hunting seemed like pastime for the foolhardy, those like Gorion. The mere notion of resembling the sage made the wine in his mouth curdle, so it a curt look was all he could manage. Skie, however, slipped in a murmuring of thanks, and while breathing in his ear the remainder to at least try to be courteous, he could feel her vexation the invitation was offered at all. When he muttered back that the hunter seemed the disreputable sort, Skie made no attempts to hide her eyeroll, and somewhat pertly informed him that 'Aldeth Sashenstar' was a 'braggard' and a 'brigand in silk' who stood to lose everything.

Charnarion himself brushed off the whole encounter, Duke Entar already briefing him on the Seven Suns' rapidly fading fortunes. In fact, the duke had spent a good hour reminding them both of who to avoid, how to behave, and who to be especially gracious to. It got to the point where Skie had exclaimed 'Daddy!' and stamped her foot, not quite bewailing a 'We know!'. Still, it worked, and Entar allowed a 'See that you do', in spite of her theatrics. His brow was far too furrowed, and not even his daughter's kiss to his cheek raised his visible demeanour. If Charnarion had to hazard a guess, as Skie has demanded with a particularly exasperated sigh in the carriage, it was Entar was preoccupied with the coming summit with Reiltar and the Knights of the Shield in Candlekeep. Instead of waving it off, as she would have a few years back, Skie simply frowned, nodded, and fell silent. Then she kissed him. It was as well the carriage drapes were drawn, or the broadsheets and pamphleteers would have a field day.

In the next lull, he wondered how Skie knew of Sashenstar, as she had always avoided economics like the plague, which, he instantly realised, was a rather unfortunate and insensitive comparison that he must never voice aloud to her, lest he bring up painful memories of Brilla.

The various nobles and daughters of nobility, milled around, and a few of them, of both sexes, made passes at both him and Skie, more than one all but offering a 'menagerie', which Skie coldly correctly as a 'ménage à trois' and told each of the three men, of whom two were close in age and one was old enough to be their collective father, and two young women, that neither of them held any interest, and perhaps they should direct their inquiries to the Undercellar. Bringing up the Undercellar in public was clearly a faux pas, but those who might have insinuated a liaison backed off. One dark haired woman, perhaps of Cythandria's age, made a comment that being locked away for so long had left her wondering if he and Skie actually existed. Charnarion felt that it was his turn to restrain Skie, and were it not for the fact it was their wedding day, some of the remarks should have led to duels, not that Charnarion had any intention of being baited.

Perhaps the most obvious absence was that of Cythandria, Sarevok and Reiltar Anchev. It might be considered a snub, but for the fact they had put in an appearance yesterday, and Cythandria wrote a letter in a flowing, elegant hand making her excuses. It arrived that morning, right before they set off for the Ducal Palace. It seemed, without being too indelicate, that the shellfish was less than agreeable, and as Sarevok was unable to attend, it would be crass not to care for him. As if to soften the blow, she also confided that their announcement would have to wait, but both Skie and Charnarion were invited for dinner at the next available opportunity, and perhaps they could attend the theatre in a few days, once their honeymoon was concluded.

It was a nice enough letter, but Charnarion wondered aloud what announcement Sarevok and Cythandria could possibly make. Skie rolled her eyes and informed him in a particularly patient tone that obviously they were announcing their betrothal. She also wondered how he could be so dense. Ignoring this, he continued to vocalise his thought train, pondering if perhaps, Cythandria was with child. Skie frowned at this, and nodded slowly, as if she were reviewing their past encounters for any subtle shifts. Somehow, he just didn't quite picture Sarevok as a father. Then again, he didn't picture himself as one either, but such things happened, with time, usually. Assuming, of course, he and Skie ever got their wedding night.

Her foot pressed against his toe, bringing him sharply out of his thoughts. Glancing around, he wondered why she roused him. Then he saw. Duke Entar's face was deathly pale, a messenger whispering furiously at his side. Their father's whole face crumpled, and despite his curt dismissal, and attempt to regain his composure, many eyes in the hall turned to him. Standing tall, he met the stares until each bowed away, and the festivities resumed, though the tone of the murmurings altered. Charnarion began to stand, but Skie gripped his arm, and addressed his frown with a visible eye roll. Now clearly wasn't the time, but as the Duke excused himself, he couldn't help but wonder what was going on.

A few hours later, he found out.


	10. 10: Duke Anchev

10\. Duke Anchev

Standing beside his bride, back in Entar's study, the duke addressed them both simply, plainly, and with deep regret, his palms flat on his desk as he stood. Charnarion felt Skie's gasp and stifled sob as she turned and buried her face against him, while for him, everything became numb. Entar ceased to speak, but slumped back in his seat. The Duke's words replayed over and over in Charnarion's mind, their meaning clear, but somehow without sense. It didn't make sense. Bandits? Eddard? Ajantis? What were they doing hunting bandits? How could two paladins with a squadron of Flaming Fist simply fall? How did the bandits know to ambush them?

Turning to Skie, he simply held her, while she screamed and cried her heart out. Inwardly, he felt nothing. He and Eddard had never been especially close, but he was still a brother to him, an older one. He was meant to carry on the family name, his father's legacy, uphold the Silvershield estate. All of that was snuffed out, all by a few arrows. Now… everything fell on him, and on Skie.

Charnarion studied Entar. The man looked more wearied than ever, more resigned than hurt, one blow too many, the weight of so much loss finally crushing him. He no longer looked regal, capable, or confident; he looked tired to his very bones, broken. Charnarion knew they had enemies, rivals, their allies often being their rivals, but who would have ever thought the Silvershield heir would ever fall to mere bandits? For all his years of training, for all the wealth that bought the very best armour, shield and sword, for all his god's protection, Eddard had fallen like a common foot-soldier. No healing vials were enough, and he bled out, in the dirt, like a deer brought down by a game hunter.

His grip tightened around Skie, her wailing increasing. The rest of the household was in despair, their joy ripped abruptly from them, and mourning garments were donned. There could be no honeymoon now, no celebration. For Skie, she had only her father left, and who knew how long he would last? The very foundations of their world seemed shaken. Charnarion wondered if this is how those who lost their gods felt a decade back. Nothing would ever, could ever be the same.

A single Flaming Fist scout escaped the slaughter; he claimed the arrows were barbed, steeped with venom, and their enchantments pierced their armour as though it were parchment. A day later, the Fist sent their condolences, and their commander, 'Scar', personally sent his assurances the matter would be investigated. Wearily, Entar dismissed the messenger, one Lieutenant Jessa Vai, and she offered a curt salute, her fiery hair bound neatly at the nape, her helm under her arm.

In the coming days, the Black Talon tightened their grip on the city, and an Iron Throne trade delegation brought about the collapse of the Seven Suns. Duke Entar withdrew from public life, mourning his son, and holing up in his study. Reiltar, now Grand Duke, went alone to Candlekeep, and there, met with the Knights of the Shield. He never made it back, and Sarevok, apparently inheriting his late father's title within a matter of hours, launched a savage proclamation Amn had murdered his father and called for vengeance. Eltan, the remaining Grand Duke, fell ill and perished a few days later, apparently, poisoned at the hands of Amnish agents. War fervour, driven by fear, at such an attack on native soil, rose to fever pitch, and anyone found guilty of 'moderation', were branded traitors. Those few calling for peace were violently suppressed by the Black Talons.

With Duke Entar still in self-imposed confinement, it seemed there was no one left to challenge Sarevok's rule, and he ruthlessly asserted his power across the city, threatening to disband the Flaming Fist if they didn't heed his rally to arms. The martial law Entar vowed to lift was thrust back upon the people, Sarevok declaring its necessity for 'the greater good' and a city-wide draft began. All the sons of the noble families were called up, and pressed into officer training. Many of them had experience, but most of them simply partook in duels for recreation. That they were used to front squadrons of the Fist suggested to some that Sarevok merely intended to control the aristocracy and use the Fist as fodder. This assessment was soon proved correct, as the advanced force was formed primarily of the Fist.

Unable to resign her commission, Jessa Vai headed to the Silvershield estate and claimed that she was dispatched with a group of the 'old guard' to augment the household guard, and see to Duke Entar's safety. Given the murder of two Grand Dukes in such short succession, Sarevok was forced to concede, lest he risk an uprising. Duke Entar still maintained huge popularity, but despite Skie's constant prompts for him to call the people to overthrow the tyrant that was Sarevok, he would not, instead, sinking deeper and deeper into his depression. Blaming himself not just for his son, but also his wife, Duke Entar could not be lifted. Charnarion began to suspect that something else was at play, perhaps of arcane nature, but few clerics were available, and the entirety of the city's mages were drafted for the war effort.

Meanwhile, Cythandria was conspicuously silent, appearing only twice to visit the Silvershield estate, offering her commiserations. Each time, she was received in the front drawing room, where she took kaeth, preferring hers dark, like Charnarion's. Skie, pale, and wan, in black, joined them, but her responses were all but scripted, polite but without heart. Cythandria remained forcefully cheerful, though cool, and her sole touch was to press on each of their knees, her eyes holding a sort of sympathy, but also a grimness that Charnarion could not quite place. Sarevok was too busy with the war effort to visit, and balls, banqueting and dinner parties, along with other frivolities, such as the theatre, were no longer acceptable.

As the city became a war camp, Sarevok's public appearances became fewer and fewer. A few whispers of a personal illness were quickly suppressed, but never quite went away. In Cythandria's second visit, in an apparently lapse, she absently commented that Sarevok was more irritable and he was unable to touch shellfish. Then she told them not to worry, that no one would even consider blaming them. She also dropped that their wedding would take place right before Sarevok's march, and while still in mourning, it was expected that the pair be there, as someone needed to represent the Silvershields.

Jessa Vai showed her out, and security was tightened around the estate. Under her command, the great gates remained locked, and the watch along the walls was doubled, all roof access was restricted, and guardsmen with bows patrolled the roof as well as the grounds. The servants' existed in a state of subdued terror, their day to day routine unaltered, but the mood grey. Those who bucked this trend involved Charnarion's former governess and the morning maid. Even the major-domo was in despair.

Worse was to come. Cythandria, who apparently 'advised' Lieutenant Vai to ensure that neither Skie nor Charnarion left the estate, for their own protection, was apt in her assessment. The mood shifted from fervour to low, rumbling anger, outrage and fear when Sarevok, as Grand Duke, declared a 'return to the old ways', and forced the clerics from their temples, instead raising the black banner of Bhaal from all the houses of the gods. In a speech in the hall of the Ducal Palace, he declared that since 'murder' was the 'tools of Amn', they would 'take those tools and turn them against them'. Reportedly, a phalanx of Black Talons responded by tearing off their livery and throwing down their banners and taking up their Duke's new banner. Upon this declaration, it was said that a number of assassination attempts occurred, each one savagely put down. Those that made it to the upper halls of the Iron Throne's tower, now the true headquarters of the war effort and city administration, faced Sarevok himself. It was said the fortunate ones were those who underwent public execution.

As Charnarion wiled away the days, Skie altered her time with him, sitting close by, and retreating to various spots around the house for hours at a time. She guarded her solitude zealously, and none of the servants approached her except for the morning maid, who patently informed her when it was time for meals. Charnarion believed that she helped, or insisted, on bathing Skie each night and morn, and perhaps it was her efforts alone that kept Skie from becoming completely mussed. Skie herself showed little inclination towards self-care, prone to bouts of random tears, absolute silence, and then abrupt wailing, only to still. However unfair it might have been, Charnarion found himself relieved that she withdrew, granting him respites from the general mood. At the same time, he was grateful for her presence and took comfort whenever she was near, somehow mutually sharing closeness even with all that was going on.

For his own part, Charnarion found himself stalking the grounds, restless as he sought out Lieutenant Vai and requested near constant reports. He eagerly awaited word from the city with a hunger that could not be sated. Ravenous for news, his frustration at his inability to do something, anything, only increased. It struck him as odd that if all the other noble sons aged ten and over were drawn into the 'officer training programme', why had he alone been singled out and all but confined under house arrest? Between such thoughts and his prowling, he found himself pouring through the various books of the Silvershield estate. Exemptions were made for many of the liveried servants, and they jealously guarded their duties, as if afraid to be moved to the front line. Charnarion had no doubt this was not due to charity, but simply to prevent the noble classes from rising in outright rebellion. Removing their servants was a sure-fire way to incite all manner of revolt. Imagine, a lord having to wash and fold their own laundry. Charnarion rolled his eyes.

It seemed however, that Lieutenant Vai obviously remembered him, and it took him a while to place her. Previously posted in Beregost, it was her who led the investigation into Gorion's death and informed Firebead of the news. Perhaps that was why she tolerated him, or perhaps, she simply respected his station. Recalled when the city was sealed, she kept her head down, something Charnarion could appreciate.

The day of the wedding came and went, a letter arriving from Cythandria's now familiar hand, apologising and promising she would visit soon. The city, her elegant scrawl told, was much more dangerous than she previously imagined, and with so many vagrants wishing to vent their fury against their rightful lords, she could not, in good conscience allow their safety to be jeopardised. Therefore, she must insist that they stay with their father, safe at the Silvershield estate. And that, was that.

Lieutenant Vai reported that the Black Talon patrols had increased, their numbers swollen by the foreign recruits, while Sarevok's host, mostly formed from the city rabble, wore the colours of Bhaal, the dead Lord of Murder. The masses had grown to accept it, she believed, though she sounded sceptical, as Sarevok had transformed it into a symbol of victory.

Vai also reported that her commander, Scar, had fallen in battle, not, she noted, in the forays against the outskirts of Nashkel, which Amn was hastily reinforcing, though rumours persisted that the authorities of Athkatla could not quite bring themselves to believe the madness that was occurring in Baldur's Gate, instead dismissing it as the ramblings of lunacy, but rather, Scar had shared a similar fate to Eddard Silvershield, shot down by bandits. Of course, the foray had been a success, and Sarevok declared the surround lands officially cleared of bandits. A line of filled gibbets running the length of the road from Beregost to Baldur's Gate silenced any doubters. He also instituted a policy that won him such favour, accolades were heaped upon him from the masses. The policy was simple: all commanders led from the front. There was no cowardice allowed in his ranks, no favouritism. If an officer failed to lead his or her troops, he had no business being an officer.

On the surface, Charnarion could agree with that, but it also seemed like an excellent way to hold the noble families hostage. If they did not tow the line, their sons would simply meet the same fate as Scar and now, he was thoroughly convinced, Eddard. Eddard might not have been personal, but he was certain Scar's demise was there to set an example. Now, he imagined, many of the families would be stumbling over each other in order to please their sole Grand Duke. If they didn't, no doubt a few more examples could be set.

A few days later, the policy was revised: if an officer failed, or his squadron retreated, the officer would pay for it with his life, and one out of ten of the remaining soldiers were to be put to the sword by their own unit. Any deserters would suffer a fate so terrible they would beg for a merciful death.

From the outset of Sarevok claiming his father's title, Imoen stopped writing, or perhaps, Charnarion decided, it might be more accurate to say that none of her letters got through. It was also odd that no one noticed Sarevok failed to be elected, but rather, no one opposed him, at least, no one opposed him for very long.

The raids increased on outlying regions. The village of Gullykin was targeted, its survivors enslaved, and set to work in mines based in Cloakwood, mines that the Iron Throne knew of but few others remembered. The town of Beregost was subjugated, fortified and the road south made ready for the march. The Friendly Arm Inn between Beregost and Baldur's Gate, a former temple of Bhaal, was restored, and as a former walled keep, it became a staging post along the supply run. Preparations continued, and with each passing day, Sarevok's horde grew stronger. From the port city of Luskan in the north, ships bearing mercenaries arrived by the dozen, drawn by the promise of loot. A delegation from the Lords Alliance arrived, demanding Sarevok stand down and relinquish his power. They were all beheaded in one of the public squares, their heads drowned in honey and sent back to their masters, with the stark warning of not to interfere or the city's former allies would be deemed as hostile 'to the advancement to the people of the Gate', and such hostility would 'not be tolerated'.

Despite his warmongering, no one had actually formally issued any declarations of war, and Athkatla was still in a state of disbelief at events in the north. While Amn continued to reinforce the frontier town of Nashkel, its leaders seemed to believe that as Sarevok hadn't moved, it was simple posturing in order to force better trade relations. Had it been another Grand Duke, such as Reiltar Anchev, they might have been right. No one was entirely sure why Sarevok hadn't moved, or what he was waiting for. While the army raided undefended settlements, trained and stood at attention, engaged in parade drills and drank ale, Sarevok appeared immobilised. A few quiet voices began to question if he was all bluster, or if he was afraid to act. Waterdeep sent a second set of emissaries, who were, understandably, far more tactful, and personally open to negotiation. It was said Cythandria sent them packing, refusing to allow them to see the Grand Duke. Sarevok's preparations for war took precedence over all other matters. In fact, whenever anyone approached the upper storeys, and few wished to, they found themselves turned away, or speaking with Cythandria. The answer was always the same: Sarevok was busy and not to be disturbed. Right before anyone could move against them, a mandate was issued declaring Cythandria as 'Grand Duchess', and that she spoke with her lord's voice.

Winter came and went, and still, the army did not move. The mercenaries from Luskan grew increasingly restless, and tavern riots became common as ill-discipline mounted. Months later, from the upmost balcony of the Iron Throne's tower, much as he had before, Sarevok addressed the people. He claimed he had engaged in secret negotiations with Amn, and an agreement had been reached. They had won a bloodless victory. Nashkel, the frontier mining town, would be turned over to their control, and Athkatla had surrendered. Moreover, Amn would pay reparations, and while they did not accept the blame for the death of the two Grand Dukes directly, they credited a rogue group within Amn as responsible. In order to forgo the further loss of life, those responsible would be turned over for public execution. The war was over.

The 'Sythillisian uprising' afflicting Amn's south was never mentioned, nor was it made known Amn could ill-afford a war on two fronts. The siege and subsequent fall of the Amnish port city of Murann was also kept quiet, as, with the armies of Amn distracted and demoralised, tactically, now would be the time to invade.

The reaction was mixed. The Luskan mercenaries revolted, and predictably, the Black Talons, though taking losses, contained them. Stripped of their weapons, armour and clothing, they were taken to the lowest levels of the mines in chains, their officers publicly disembowelled. The ringleaders were burnt alive. This gruesome example quietened the city, and Cythandria announced a five day, city-wide celebration, at Athkatla's expense.

During this time, she personally visited the Silvershield estate. Around her neck hung a golden locket.


	11. 11: Epilogue

11\. Epilogue

The vials were never found, Charnarion later learnt, as they sat together, as a family, in the drawing room. Shortly after the five day celebration, martial law was abandoned, and things slowly returned to normal. Duke Entar's health improved, and bit by bit, his grief faded. While they heard stories of others carrying Bhaal's banner, those in the Gate were torn down and burnt. The clerics who were cast out were invited back, and the old ways were once again forgotten.

Sarevok continued to make few public appearances, but when he did, it was rarely at Cythandria's side. The two of them were seen only thrice more, and two years after the declaration of peace, and the signing of a formal treaty, the Grand Duchess announced, with heartfelt sorrow, that her lord husband had succumbed to a terrible disease, a resurgence of an old ailment from his youth in Sembia.

The truth, she later confided, when she stood in Duke Entar's study alone with Charnarion, was a little different. She might never have mentioned it, were it not for the offhand comment he made about the vanity glamours Gorion invested so heavily in. In that room, she warned him never to speak of them again. He returned by questioning if, perchance, she might possess such a talent. Made bold by his confinement, his challenge was rewarded by a slap to the mouth, one that broke neither skin nor the boundaries of the room. Warned not to test her patience, she instructed her little brother to keep his mouth shut. At last, Charnarion admitted that he, too, was no stranger to the vanity glamours, and of Gorion's fate. Cythandria mere nodded, as if it were of no consequence, for what purpose did she have with her long dead, absent father? If she had inherited anything, it was his talent for the Art, and perhaps his ego, but her looks, like Charnarion's were entirely her mother's, as was her interest in the ancient mysteries. Yet, while Gorion might have cost her her mother, Winski would have cost her far more had Bhaal returned.

Briefly, she explained in terse tones how Bhaal foresaw his own demise, took women from many races, and ordered that their offspring be sacrificed in order to fuel his rebirth. Those children who survived were destined to war amongst themselves until he, or she, ascended to Bhaal's infernal throne becoming the new Lord of Murder.

Despite his many questions, Charnarion merely inclined his head, then asked what happened to Winski. Cythandria looked grim. Winski was Sarevok's mentor, having inserted himself in Reiltar's inner circle after many years of searching. When it became clear not all the Children were slain, he realised that Bhaal would not rise as he intended, and so, instead, aligned himself with a candidate whom he believed would assume Bhaal's mantel. Sarevok. But Cythandria had no intentions of allowing Sarevok to ascend, and the day she saw Charnarion at the Silvershield estate, she knew, without doubt, he was her half-brother. From that moment on, she dedicated herself to stopping Sarevok's ascension, slowly poisoning him until the day he was weakened enough for her to finish the job. From a position of power, she would root out the rest of the Children and see the knives their sire intended for them find their backs. All except for his.

Uncertain what to say, he simply stared. Then she kissed his cheek, and murmured she always wanted a little brother, and from the very first, he had been exactly that. Skie was the perfect little sister-in-law, and from this powerbase, she intended to rule the Gate, strengthening it against invasion and against the wrath of the Bhaalspawn remnant. If and when they came in force, she would be ready. Then, if he so wished, he could take Bhaal's throne for his own, becoming something greater, or, he could remain as he was, perhaps, one day, succeeding Duke Entar, or at the very least, joining her as Grand Duke.

With a downward glance, she noted that his decision would probably heavily rest on how long it would be until Skie's belly could hold his own spawn, which, she suggested, might be another three months judging by her current size.

And now, if he would excuse her, she had to make amends with Duke Entar. Having succeeded in their plan to curtail Reiltar's power, and having been raised by Winski only to become Reiltar's spy, ordered to seduce Entar Silvershield, and then, against all her expectations, actually fall in love, then forced to leave the one man who had ever been truly kind to her and return to her master's son in order to protect the family she'd grown to love, even from afar, it was time to set things straight. A year from now, her official grieving period would be over, and then, she would wed Entar, and since Sarevok, Reiltar's heir, inherited his father's assets, including the Iron Throne, all that passed to her with Sarevok's own death.

But what of the rest of the company, Charnarion pressed. Surely Reiltar had superiors? He had, she fixed him a long look, but Sarevok took care of that right before his ascension to Grand Duke. Becoming sole director of the Gate branch, he severed links to the parent company having amassed enough wealth to rule alone. Sarevok had no patience for trade, and only ever tolerated Reiltar's superiors. Reiltar, she added, was never Sarevok's actual father to begin with: Sarevok was a foundling, one who escaped Gorion's raid, the same raid that Gorion snatched Charnarion from. In fact, were it not for her, Sarevok would have allowed the Iron Throne to fall to utter ruin, but she always intended to absorb their assets into the Silvershield estate.

As for Winski, he treated her with less consideration than a dog, and once he took on Sarevok's tutelage, Sarevok was lost. Between Reiltar's cruelty and Winski's brutality, it was little surprise he turned rabid. She witnessed it in how he trained with his soldiers. Broken arms, crushed rib cages, snapped necks, he killed for the pleasure of killing. Never, she smoothed Charnarion's cheek, had she witnessed that with him, having observed him and Eddard sparring on many an occasion. She kept a closer eye on him than he knew, watching with growing fondness as he slowly opened up.

Regret clouded her eyes, as she confessed she failed Eddard. She wasn't aware of it, wasn't sure who ordered it, but she suspected that since he hadn't shared it with her, it must have been one of Sarevok's underlings, perhaps his lacky Tazok, who took control of the Black Talons. She wasn't sure what reason he had to target Eddard, but there were routine purges of anyone who was loyal to the old order. Her inability to protect Eddard was something she carried and would have to bear for the rest of her days. Perhaps she could have done more, but she was fearful of overplaying her hand, lest Sarevok become suspicious, or worse, tire of her and cast her aside. But out of everything, Eddard's death weighed on her the most.

What of Entar? Charnarion wanted to know. With Sarevok gone, there was no longer any need to upkeep the enchantment on Entar, and while it broke her heart to hex him, it was that, or see him suffer the same fate as the other Grand Dukes, and that she could not abide. She might not be able to make up for all the time stolen, but she promised none of their suffering was in vain, that she too, had suffered. It was Entar who changed her, his stalwartness, slowly coaxing her cold, proud ambition, showing her another way, a better way, showing her, for the first time, a gentleness, a warmth, a love. With him, she had never been an object. Winski, Reiltar, Sarevok: to her, she was something to be used and discarded, a plaything, a tool. Entar didn't love her for her flesh, he loved her for who she was, and for that, she could never repay him. While they had planned some of it out, she had acted independently for the most part, asking only that he trust her, and one day, she would return to him, but for now, she had to keep him safe. His belief in her, however reluctant, was what proved her convictions, and she knew, no matter what happened, she was right about him, and so, she left Entar for Sarevok, knowing Winski would counsel the deaths of the other Grand Dukes. From Sarevok's side, from his bed, she was able to convince him to do away with Winski, able to turn aside his foul hand and temper his vile will, at least a little.

Was she ever tempted, wondered Charnarion. Once, perhaps, she might have been, but having seen Sarevok's fits of fury, knowing he retained another lover, a kara-turan, whom Cythandria had placed in the front lines once Sarevok tired of her, she, Cythandria, knew that nothing good could come of Sarevok's ascension, and besides, she had Entar. He kept his promise and waited for her, trusted her. She knew that she would never have to share him with anyone, never have to worry about him leaving her, casting her aside or tiring of her. Loyalty, she said, was greater than ambition, and both Entar and he, Charnarion, showed her that. Now she would repay that trust, and nothing, nothing would ever come between them as a family again as long as she had breath left.

Then, smiling, she pinched his cheek. Not only had he gained a half-sister, a year from now, he would gain a mother-in-law. He wasn't entirely sure what to make of that, but for some reason, he found himself smiling. Perhaps things might just work out after all.

As a final aside, Imoen, who had somehow survived without going completely crazy after being cooped up in Candlekeep, resumed her letter with such a fervour, Charnarion found a veritable flood of parchment surging across his young wife's bureau. It seemed as soon as Candlekeep was sealed, Imoen ceased to send her letters, but not her writing of them, and it did not matter that during that time Skie stopped answering. All that mattered was now the channels of communication were once again open, the missives could flow. It proved too much to keep up with, even for Skie, who patiently dedicated hours of her day to corresponding with her best friend, and so, in an attempt to stem the tide, Charnarion made an offhand remark that he would later come to regret. Skie, beaming at the idea, immediately snatched up a pen, waddled to her writing bureau, and summoned a servant to hand deliver the single line to the courier. Naturally, Imoen accepted, and for the first time in her life, she was free from Candlekeep, the stuffy old monks, the inn, but not the visiting nobles. With a room set aside for her, declaring herself an aunt to her best friend's unborn babes, she remained as Skie's nearly inseparable companion. Were it not for his blatant condition she refrain from causing havoc and exploring, she and Skie, in all likelihood, would have wound up in all kinds of mischief, no doubt repeating Brilla and Aliana's exploits, Charnarion sighed to himself. Perhaps it was as well Skie was with child, for what better than one's children to serve as an anchor against wanderlust?

As for the bard Eldoth Kron, Charnarion was led to understand that he was one of the few foolhardy enough to skirt Sarevok's mandates during the time of martial law. As one whose dereliction of duty from his post during the night watch was discovered, he found himself made an example of. Before his rather brutal and gruesome end, he revealed his connection to Skie Silvershield in the hopes of leniency. Instead of mercy, he was dragged to the lower levels of the Iron Throne, where, under torture, he confessed to planning to seduce, kidnap and extort her, making her a willing accomplice in an attempt to gain coin from Duke Entar. He also admitted to intending to dispose of her, once she had exhausted her uses. For these crimes, which Sarevok would have cared little about, Cythandria's wrath saw a terrible retribution, and it was fair to say that the ringleaders of the Luskan mercenary revolt fared better in their end.

It was also worth noting, Charnarion observed, that the unlikeliest of friendships developed between Cythandria and Imoen, for somehow, Cythandria gained two sisters – or possibly two step-daughters. During the last month of Skie's pregnancy, Imoen received a letter, outlining simply that the man who raised her, Winthrop, the innkeep and old friend of Gorion, died in the early hours of the night. The examining physician claimed Winthrop's heart gave out, which, while devastating to Imoen, came as no surprise to either her nor Charnarion. Imoen's name for the heavy man, 'Puffguts', proved all too apt. Heavy in body, heavy in drink, it was only ever a matter of time. All it took was one short, private conversation, and Duke Entar gave into his daughter's wish. Before the tenday was out, adoption papers were drafted, and despite having come of age, eyes brimming, Imoen flung her arms around the Duke, and a smiling Cythandria, who needed scant convincing, and her residence was made permanent. Skie gained the sister she always wanted, and Charnarion, for all his efforts, realised that no matter how far he went, he would never truly escape Imoen, the bane and plague of Candlekeep.

Then again, he considered, there were far worse people in the realms.

 _Fin_


End file.
